Black Wasp II: Dark Shadows
by Sabari
Summary: Six months ago, the William Bernard case seemed open and shut. But now things aren't so simple. With players both new and old trying to get him out, can Batman and Robin keep Bernard from being released? Probably AU. Non-slash/non-pairing.
1. Chapter 1

"_If there is a wasp in the room I like to be able to see it."  
_**-**_**The Voyage of the Dawn Treader**_ _**(**_C.S. Lewis_**)**_

* * *

**PART 1 – Bite of the Dragon**

"_Six months ago, famed philanthropist William Bernard was arrested at his residence after a jaguar being kept as a pet on the premises escaped and set off the alarm. The animal's escape ended only after a house fire was started and three men were dead. Even more astonishing, it was reported that a masked vigilante was kept in the basement, though reports are scattered and divided on the issue._

_Mr. Bernard was initially declared insane, but his nephew, Corin Wilson, had attempted to overthrow the ruling. Mr. Bernard was transferred to Gotham's Arkham Asylum for the criminally insane, and so it is here, rather than the Texas county he was arrested in, that Bernard's case will come to trial."_

Dick Grayson snapped the TV off, bristling. He tossed the remote onto the coffee table and began to pace like a caged animal. Bruce Wayne looked over his newspaper.

"What are you so upset about?" Bruce asked mildly.

"That's not right," Dick said, "None of it is," he paused and looked at Bruce, "William Bernard was an only child. You told me that yourself. Don't you think it's strange that an only child has a nephew?"

Dick winced slightly and sat down. The vigilante Bernard had caught was Robin, and his captivity had not been kind. In the end, Bernard's black jaguar, Supay, had nearly torn him (and Bernard) to pieces.

"Leg still hurt?" Bruce inquired.

Dick flashed him a glare, apparently angry that he'd noticed. It hadn't been easy vanishing Dick Grayson from sight long enough for the leg to heal. The jaguar's claws had dug deep, going right to the bone, cutting everything on the way. It wasn't something you recovered from overnight.

Dick had taken up the mantel of Robin again, and his favoring of the injured leg was so slight that only Bruce himself or possibly Alfred would even notice. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt. It only meant Dick didn't want anyone to comment on it.

"Look," Bruce sighed, folding the paper, "It doesn't really matter who Wilson is. He doesn't have a leg to stand on," Dick glared at him again, "Well he doesn't. In addition to all of the eye witnesses, much of what happened in that house was caught on camera."

"I bet Bernie never thought those security cameras would be pinning him to the wall," Dick commented, but was clearly not soothed by Bruce's reasonable tone.

Bruce was still unclear what, if anything, Bernard had actually done to Robin. But Dick hadn't been the same since. He brooded more, and he hadn't been at all pleased to hear that Bernard was being declared insane. While he agreed that the man's mind was unsound, it was his opinion that Bernard was no more crazy than any other criminal. He had known what he was doing. Whatever that was.

Bruce wasn't clear on that either. Dick didn't talk about it much.

Dick was up and pacing again, hands behind his back. Bruce knew it was infuriating to have been somewhere, but be unable to tell what you'd seen. But it wasn't Dick Grayson who'd been kidnapped. It was Robin. And, legally speaking, Robin didn't exist. And neither did Batman.

"You weren't the only one there," Bruce pointed out, "There were eight girls, the chef and his assistant, a groundskeeper and all those security men, most of whom have turned against Bernard."

"I still don't like it," Dick said, "Something is up. You didn't see the look in his eyes when it was all over. It was like none of it had surprised him, like he'd planned it all along."

"A wasp flew out of the grass and stung his jaguar, saving his life. It doesn't get more surprising than that," Bruce told him, "You couldn't plan for that."

"The wasp stung him too," Dick recalled, a shudder running through him.

That was another thing. Robin was fearless and bold as ever, except when it came to one thing. He didn't complain or hesitate, but it was clear to Batman that Robin didn't like park areas in the early morning. And he especially didn't like the sound of grasshoppers at any time of day. There didn't seem to be any reason behind it.

Bruce knew about tarantula hawks, of course. But he'd never seen one up close and personal, and he'd certainly never been stung by one. Tarantula hawks were southern, common to states such as Arizona, New Mexico and Texas. They could also be found in Australia, Africa and all those other places where big hairy spiders were common. Basically, if tarantulas were there, so were the wasps.

The wasps normally fed on nectar, and were passive. But the females had an unbelievably painful sting, which was typically used to paralyze a tarantula, an animal that was easily three times the size of the wasp. She would then lay a single egg on the paralyzed spider. When it hatched, the larva would feed on the spider, avoiding vital organs until the last, ensuring that the spider lived throughout.

They were horrific on paper, but Bruce had his doubts about how bad they could actually be. After all, their sting was noted as being painful, but not deadly. Pain had little meaning for him.

"I'm sure he didn't plan to be stung either," Bruce said.

"I'm not talking about the wasp!" Dick exclaimed, then lowered his voice, "I'm saying the man had a plan for everything. He thinks he has the whole world wired, and I didn't see any change of that opinion when he was caught."

"As I recall, you were in the process of passing out from blood loss," Bruce reminded him.

"I know what I _saw_, Bruce," Dick said flatly, "There's something we're not seeing. Something about this whole thing is very wrong. It's-" he broke off suddenly, looking out the window.

Bruce followed his gaze. Outside, the bat signal shone bright, a sharp contrast of light against the dark evening sky. Bruce set his paper aside and stood up.

"It's time to go to work," he said.

* * *

"Oh good, you're both here," Commissioner Gordon said.

Batman and Robin looked at one another. Batman was actually on the rooftop, but Robin was hanging back, perching on the guard rail. Gordon stood near the bat signal, his shoulders hunched against the evening wind. The air was warm, it was late summer, but the wind on the rooftops was still cold.

"I assume you remember William Bernard?" Gordon inquired, but went on before they could answer, "Well, I'm sure you know that his case has been reviewed and is going to court. I'm afraid I don't understand why myself. But I do know that the prosecuting attorney is worried."

"Why?" Batman asked, sounding surprised.

"Of the witnesses, we have only managed to locate two. Melina Guevara and Rebecca May. We can't find any of the others, they all disappeared shortly after Bernard's arrest. Probably went into hiding."

"What about the video evidence?" Batman wanted to know.

"There is some question about whether it's been tampered with. My opinion is that part of it has been edited out, rather that altered, but it isn't admissible in court in any case," Gordon shrugged, "Miss Guevara is viewed as a frightened teenage girl. Her testimony won't count for much, I'm afraid."

"And May?"

"Shaky at best. She admitted herself to a psychiatric hospital almost six months ago, and only recently checked herself out."

"But none of that changes the facts," Batman said, "Which are very much in evidence."

"You'd think that," Gordon said, "But this is William Bernard."

"So?"

"William Bernard is well known for being an excellent businessman. But, more importantly, he's known for being a philanthropist. For giving his wealth to worthy charities, for building hospitals and digging wells. He's a great humanitarian from that perspective, and that's what people know him as. That's what he's been for over forty years. Frankly, I was reluctant to believe it myself when I first heard. Kidnapping, rape, murder... none of those things seem believable. They sound like someone trying to ruin the name of a good man."

"But it's all true. The evidence supports that," Batman said.

"That's enough to convince me. And it's easy to see why you're convinced," Gordon looked over at Robin, who had been oddly silent and distant, "But we have to convince a jury. A jury who probably reads the news, and has come to love William Bernard."

"Bernard gives businessmen and animals a bad name," Batman said.

"He is wealthy, he was environmentally and politically active for most of his life. People have heard the stories. They adore him. He's inspired an entire generation of people to go into business, and to become active in their communities. Nobody wants to hear a bad word about him."

"You're afraid the case will be dropped?" Batman asked.

"I'm afraid that monster will go free, and start it all over again. You tell me, who is the jury going to believe: a wonderful humanitarian or a hysterical teenage girl who they think wants his money?"

"Miss Guevara, as I understand it, is well taken care of," Batman commented dryly.

"Yes, Bruce Wayne showed his usual generosity towards troubled kids," Gordon agreed, "But the jury will think Melina Guevara is greedy, and wants more than what she's got. After all, why else would she be trying to tarnish such a spotless reputation as Bernard's?"

"What about this Wilson?" Batman asked.

"I don't know," Gordon sighed, handing Batman a file, "It was always my understanding that William Bernard was an only child. But it seems his father had a child with another woman before he married, Bernard's half-brother, who is deceased. Died in a car accident."

Batman scanned the file quickly, then passed it to Robin, who inspected it more critically. It seemed like Robin was more interested than he was letting on.

Robin was looking at the part of the file concerning Rebecca May, whom he barely recalled. She was tall, blond, with fair skin and features that insured she would be carded well into her thirties. She was twenty-six, old by Bernard's standards, but with a deceptively young face. She looked sixteen.

"Wilson's a lawyer. He's lived in Gotham most of his life. Has more degrees than I care to count. He's thirty-two, single, lives in an apartment just a few miles south of here."

"Funny," Batman commented, "I've never heard of him."

"I haven't either," Gordon admitted, "But his records check out. He's working Bernard's defense himself. Since they're related, he's picked Bernard a good attorney that works out of the same office."

"Real unbiased," Robin grunted sarcastically, still buried in the file.

Batman didn't acknowledge the comment, so Gordon decided not to reply.

"What is it you want from us, Jim?"

"Not you," Gordon said, then nodded towards Robin, "Him."

Batman looked over at Robin, who was now peering sharply over the top of the file.

"Me?"

"The prosecuting attorney wants you to come in and be a witness. He called me, because he knows I can get hold of Batman sometimes," Gordon said.

"I can't be a witness," Robin said, standing suddenly, apparently oblivious to the precarious nature of the guard rail he was balancing on, "I can't enter a court room."

Batman was silent. Robin looked at him.

"Tell him," Robin urged, "Tell him why I can't."

Batman said nothing to him, instead turning to Gordon.

"What about legal procedure? You can't prove he even exists," Batman said.

"Aaron Mitchel, the attorney, says he's got that covered."

"But how would it help?" Batman asked, "What good is the word of a masked vigilante whose name, origin and motivations are unknown?"

"To the judge, not much," Gordon replied, "But Aaron says that's not the important thing. Robin is a familiar face on the news, just like Bernard. While it's true you're better known," Gordon nodded to Batman, "your protege has his share of fans."

"And people who want me dead," Robin spat, shaking his head.

Gordon stared at him, not sure what that meant. Batman elaborated.

"He's right," Batman said, "going into an enclosed space at a prearranged time. We have enemies, Commissioner. They'd jump at the chance to take one of us out."

"You'd be feeding me to the wolves," Robin said.

"The courtroom will be full of policemen," Gordon pointed out, "No one would be able to get in without being checked out by my people."

"Since when has a roomful of policemen ever been a deterrent to people like Joker?" Batman asked.

"The Joker is in Arkham," Gordon said.

"And how long do you think he'll stay there after he hears that they're serving Boy Wonder at the local courthouse?" Robin asked, his tone a bit harsher than intended.

"Do you think I would come to you with this without a good reason?" Gordon asked, exasperated, "This whole trial is about politics. It's all games. Who's wearing the best tie and who talks the loudest."

"We gave you enough evidence to _bury_ him," Robin growled, "and now you're telling us you _can't_ do that."

"Easy, Robin," Batman warned.

"I told you," Robin hissed fiercely, "I told you this was all wrong. I told you."

"Settle down," Batman spoke in a low voice, but there was a level of authority to it that made Robin shut up and sit down on the guard rail.

Batman turned back to Gordon.

"I'm sorry, Jim. I don't see what we can do," Batman said.

"Then William Bernard is going to walk."

* * *

"Gordon should call shenanigans," Robin fumed, sitting in the passenger seat of the batmobile while Batman drove, "this whole thing stinks."

"Is that your professional opinion?" Batman asked, glancing at Robin.

"You know it does," Robin said, his arms crossed, "Missing witnesses, tampered evidence, Corin Wilson the lawyer, that prosecuting attorney... what's his name?... Aaron, something or the other. The whole bit. It doesn't make sense."

"I agree with you," Batman said levelly, "But don't you think you're overreacting to this?"

"You didn't hear any of his speeches. Bernard's a Grade-A Nutbar. Worse, he's a charming nutbar. People actually listen to him, and believe the things he says."

"You didn't," Batman pointed out.

"I'm not a frightened kid on the street with no safe harbor or sense of self-worth," Robin retorted, "It's not me I'm worried about. It's people like Melina. She thought how he treated her was okay. She would have taken a bullet for him when I met her."

"That isn't what's upsetting you," Batman said, "What's really bothering you?"

Robin was silent for a long moment. Then he drew in a deep breath.

"You might as well know, that whole experience wasn't exactly a cakewalk," Robin said, "It's not the kind of thing you forget. I was in that guy's basement for days."

"You've been held hostage longer than that before," Batman said, using a softer voice than usual.

He knew it was a sore spot with Robin that he was often used as a hostage. People captured Batman to torture, unmask and kill him. They caught Robin to get to Batman. Batman was well aware that his partner didn't appreciate being used, and was infuriated that nobody took him seriously.

"That's not where it started. It started with the plane crash."

"You've been in a crash before."

"I fought hard to keep Carver alive," Robin spat suddenly, his eyes flashing, "It wasn't easy keeping that guy alive. And then Bernard came. And shot him. In the head. Killed him in cold blood."

"Like that hasn't happened before," Batman said, though in truth, he wasn't sure if it had.

Certainly Robin had seen dead bodies before, and seen people killed. But Batman couldn't recall if he'd actually seen someone gunned down in cold blood. But it wasn't something he couldn't handle. He'd seen his parents fall to their deaths. Yes, that had scarred him, but nothing else could compare. Batman knew that. Nothing was more terrible than the reality that they both woke up to every day of their lives.

"I've never seen that look in someone's eyes before," Robin said, "It's the stuff nightmares are made of. And if you say that's nothing I haven't seen before, I will hit you. You didn't see it. The Joker would have been grinning, giggling his fool head off, enjoying every second of it. Bernard... nothing. No anger, no pleasure. He didn't care at all whether Carver lived or died. He killed Carver just because he could."

"What's your point?" Batman asked.

"If you'd seen the look in his eyes, you'd know."

* * *

**_A/N: This is a sequel to 'Black Wasp'. While it's possible you could follow it without having read the first one, I advise against it. This story suffers from an amount of sequelitis and author indifference._**

**_As usual, I'm going to say this story is probably AU, though not especially intentionally so. _****_As always, this story is completely written. As per usual, I will upload one chapter per day (Barring anything out of the ordinary. I will attempt to give readers a head's up via A/N). This was written for my entertainment, and is being published for yours. If you find yourself not enjoying it, then you should feel perfectly free to stop reading. Heap praise or criticism upon it, whichever may suit you best. Or say nothing about it at all, if you would prefer. Do feel free to point out typos, I check my stories before publishing, but I admit my imperfection and would welcome the opportunity to correct any mistakes I may have made._**


	2. Chapter 2

Melina was accustomed to the high temperatures of central Texas. Standing on the balcony of her hotel room, leaning on the railing and looking out at Gotham, she felt a cold chill. It was cold here, and hard as stone. She had grown used to the wilderness, the isolation of Supay's World, as she called it.

Not that she had been completely alone. She had driven into town on occasion. More and more frequently, actually. At first she had been relieved to be away from people, but complete solitude was not for her, and she began to miss being around people. It was a long drive, but it was worth it.

But visiting a small town cafe was a whole different story from being put up in a hotel in the middle of Gotham city. Concrete and steel as far as the eye could see. How could anyone stand it? Especially someone like Robin, who was perhaps more wild than the jaguar Melina cared for. This was no place for a creature of his sort. He belonged to the wilderness.

Not the one that William Bernard described, with nothing thinking, only reacting, just a series of chemical responses to a careless environment. The one Robin had once told her about. The world that Supay inhabited. Where everything was alive, thinking, fighting, struggling to continue survival, but also doing things which were surprisingly risky just for the sake of it. Freedom of the wild things was no easy thing to have, but it was worth it.

Melina had felt a wildness awaken in her shortly after she began working for Wayne to maintain the expensive property that Supay the jaguar lived on. A stirring deep inside, which she had fostered until it was something real and solid. She despised these man-made towers, the confinement and rigid structure of the city, the denial of the chaos which was everywhere you looked.

She was not here for the atmosphere, which seemed toxic at best. No. She had been brought here to speak at Bernard's trial. She would have come for no other reason. Melina leaned her slight weight against the railing. Her waist-length, dark hair blew in the wind, which caressed her evenly tanned skin gently. She took a deep breath of the air. It just wasn't the same.

"Hello, Melina." She jumped and turned. Robin was perched on the railing to her left. He grinned.

"So, what do you think?" he asked, nodding towards the city.

He was sitting on the thin iron railing, acting like it was the most practical place in the world to perch. He seemed unaware that they were twelve stories up, and that was a long way to fall. He possessed a superb sense of balance, and perhaps a dash of recklessness. He was very daring, every bit the top predator. Melina couldn't help but admire his easy confidence.

"I can't imagine why anyone would actually _choose_ to live here," Melina said, "It's so cold. And I'm not just talking temperature. How could anyone like it here?"

"Eh," Robin shrugged, "You get used to it."

"Haven't you been here your whole life?" Melina asked curiously.

Robin grinned at her impishly, and didn't respond. He had come to visit from time to time, and more than once she'd tried to get personal information out of him. It had become a kind of game between them; a game Robin won without fail.

"What do you think about this Corin Wilson guy?" Robin inquired, changing the subject.

Melina shook her head and looked down at the lights of rushing cars below, "To be honest, I don't think he's real," she said, "I was with Mr... I was with _Bernard,_ for years. He never mentioned a half-brother or a nephew."

"You've never heard the name before?" Robin pressed.

"No," she replied, "He never made any mention of Wilson. Or any relatives."

"You think Wilson is a fraud?"

"I don't know," she shrugged, "Bernard was never very forthcoming with anything. He talked about his beliefs, how wonderful his work had been, things like that. But not his past or personal affairs. Never. Not even with me."

"You were only a pawn in his game," Robin said.

"I know. But it's not his game anymore. And yet... I still... I feel like..."

"Like you're being played?"

"Yes. Exactly like that."

"Me too," Robin said, "Everything about this feels... set up. Staged. Like it's not real. Like someone is manipulating everything. This trial shouldn't be happening at all. Bernard was already declared insane. He admitted to his crimes, though he claimed there was no wrongdoing."

"Because right and wrong don't exist," Melina said.

"So he claims," Robin replied, "But even he doesn't believe that."

"Well, he does believe that whatever he does is right, because he's the one who did it," Melina said.

"No. Not even that. He may seem to have himself convinced, but he knows better. He's the worst kind of criminal. He knew exactly what he was doing. And he knew it wasn't right. But he did it anyway."

* * *

Robin seemed to be upset about something. Batman wasn't sure what, but he knew well enough that Robin would either work it out for himself or keep stewing until he eventually blew up. Neither of them were especially good at talking about their feelings. They didn't talk, they just acted. It had naturally led to a number of disputes, but their bond was the stronger for it. The core conflict between them often had to do with their similarities rather than their differences.

But if it was their similarities, Batman couldn't guess what it was this time. He knew Robin was deeply disturbed by the idea of Bernard walking. But he'd also seemed very agitated about the death of Melvin Carver at William Bernard's hands. Batman wasn't sure what that was about.

He didn't like killing, and neither did Robin. But Robin was clearly overreacting, unless there was something he wasn't telling. Batman was almost certain there were things Robin wasn't telling. That in itself was unsettling. They didn't keep secrets from each other. Or anyway, Robin didn't keep secrets from Batman.

Batman suspected it was less about secrets though. Robin didn't feel like talking about it, and Batman didn't have the right questions to get any answers.

"What are we doing here?" Robin asked.

They were standing across the street from a penitentiary. It was a low security building, meant for holding inmates whose crimes were minor and whose attitudes while they were in prison had been of the cooperative and docile variety.

Maybe not easy for just anybody to get into, but Batman and Robin had entered maximum security prisons. This place was nothing to them.

"We're here to see an old friend," Batman said.

"An old friend?" Robin asked.

"Jeremy Bolden." Robin just stared at him, as though waiting for some sort of clarification.

"The pilot Carver hired to fly you across the country?" Robin showed no trace of connecting the name with event in his mind, "You mean to tell me you were in the wilderness with that man for two days, and his name never came up? Not even once?"

"I think it was more like a day and a half. But no. It didn't," Robin's voice was unusually hard, as though the topic was a sore one for him even though they'd never discussed the incident, even in passing, "You know, I was busy trying not to get dead. Some pilot's name wasn't real high on my list of important things to know."

Robin dropped his gaze and looked away, letting out a breath. He seemed unsure of what to do now that he'd blown up. He seemed uncomfortably aware that his outburst had no apparent reason, but he'd done it and wasn't sure where to go from there.

"So what do we want with Bolden?" he asked, not looking at Batman.

"Didn't you find it odd that Commissioner Gordon mentioned Guevara and May, but not Bolden?"

"To be honest, I had no idea what happened to that guy. You recall that Bernard left him in the wilderness to die, right?"

"I met him afterward. That's how I knew where you were," Batman retorted, not sure why Robin was being so irritable about this. It wasn't like him. It wasn't like him at all.

"Like I can read your mind," Robin muttered.

Batman decided that now was a good time to change the subject and hope this bug or whatever it was would go away if he just ignored it for long enough.

"Bolden may be in jail, but he could still testify against Bernard. So why hasn't anyone come to see him?" Batman asked.

"Maybe they don't know he was working for Bernard."

"He told everybody," Batman said, "He told me five times before I dropped him off with the police. He was telling them as they were trying to decide whether or not to arrest him."

"You mean he confessed?" Robin asked, seeming less distant for a moment.

"Not just to the kidnapping. He confessed to crimes he didn't even seem to know the nature of. He flew cargo for any number of people. He didn't always have names, and never knew for sure what he was carrying. But he had descriptions, dates, locations..." Batman shook his head, "Strange."

"Smart," Robin corrected.

"How so?" Batman wanted to know.

"Burn every bridge he ever built. Make it so he can't ever go back to doing it. Sounds to me as though Bolden is going straight."

Batman didn't reply. He actually hadn't thought of it that way. He'd been somewhat preoccupied at the time, and simply hadn't thought of the man again until now.

"In any case," Batman said finally, "He's not missing. And he's not dead. So why isn't he being called as a witness? He certainly saw Carver get shot. And he knew you were on that plane."

"For sure," Robin agreed.

"So why hasn't anyone contacted him? Why isn't he on the list?"

Robin conveyed his curiosity silently. Now that Batman had drawn his attention to it, he was wondering too. Batman sighed. At least they were acting together again.

Something the criminal element never saw was their frequent disagreements. Out in the city, they worked together smoothly, using moves they had practiced a thousand times over, acting in perfect tandem, Batman leading, Robin following.

Robin's obedience was always surprising somehow, at least to Batman. He knew Robin to be stubborn, willful and even sometimes bratty. He second guessed everything he was told, and generally acted independently of instruction, picking his spots, choosing his own targets without aid. But when it came to orders in the field, Robin would stop on a dime. Batman seldom had to repeat himself.

He supposed it was part of the act. If Robin was Batman's sidekick, he'd better be seen falling in line. Nobody argued with Batman and got away with it. But Batman suspected it went still deeper. In the heat of battle, anything could happen. You had to follow instructions without stopping to ask why, or risk getting dead from a shooter you didn't see, or a breaking support beam you failed to notice.

No matter what they were fighting about in private, behind the mask, Robin trusted Batman to make the right call. It was at once gratifying and humbling.

Batman let Robin go on ahead. Robin was slipping like a shadow along the outer wall of the penitentiary, getting a feel for the place before entering it. Batman had been here before, and it didn't appear as though anything had changed, but he wasn't going to hurry Robin or discourage any sort of caution or thoroughness.

Besides, they could easily be separated. If that happened, Robin needed to be able to act on his own knowledge of the place, rather than having to rely on Batman. They didn't always have time for such care, but Batman saw no real need to hurry.

Court was convening in the afternoon. Batman had already run down leads on Corin Wilson, finding nothing suspicious, except that no actual, real live people had heard of him. All the computers had, and his home looked like it had been lived in for some time. Maybe he just wasn't a people person.

Batman knew that sometimes you lost in court. That's what he was here for. If Bernard walked, Batman would still be there to keep an eye on him. He knew Bernard was a criminal, even if a court case proved otherwise. That was about politics, the opinions of people, the selection and display of evidence. It wasn't real. None of it. It was just a play, often with the finale already written in people's minds even before it began.

Innocent until proven guilty. Batman snorted. If only that were true. Then again, if it were true, there would no longer be a need for people like him to pick up the pieces.

* * *

The answer to the question of why Bolden hadn't been called as a witness was because he wasn't there. That, in itself, was not surprising. What did seem odd was that Gordon had failed to mention it, when the GCPD records office showed that Bolden was in the prison they had just visited.

Robin had gone through the files at the penitentiary to try and find out where Bolden might have gone. He had been reported as being transferred to a new location. Upon further inspection, that jail showed no record of his having arrived, or having been scheduled to do so.

It still didn't explain Gordon's ignorance of the matter, until they went back to the police file on the William Bernard case. Because Bolden had been arrested separately, hired by Carver and convicted of crimes unrelated, he hadn't been attached to the file. Gordon probably knew nothing of Bolden.

"But somebody did. And they went to a lot of trouble to vanish him," Robin remarked.

"Knowing Bolden, as soon as he saw in the paper or on the news that Bernard was going to trial, he would have spoken up about his involvement in your kidnapping," Batman said, "Of all the witnesses, he would have been the most eager to talk and clear his conscience."

"Man," Robin shook his head, "He sure changed fast. The guy I knew liked to keep his mouth shut and not ask too many questions about what he was carrying. He was only getting nervous because of his family."

"Bolden had a family?" Batman asked sharply.

"Yeah. A wife," Robin replied, "And... a maybe a couple of kids. Why? Is that significant?"

"The wife knew what he did was illegal?"

"I think so, yeah. Why?"

"Then she probably didn't leave him."

"So why hasn't she reported him missing?" Robin asked, catching on.

"Unless..." Batman prompted.

"She's missing too."


	3. Chapter 3

The second story apartment was located in a cheap neighborhood. Cheap because it was rundown. Robin recalled Jeremy Bolden talking about his attempts at going straight. He couldn't get a job, and had no money. It was strange to think of a criminal living in a dirt hole like this.

What was the point of making money illegally if it wasn't either easier or in obscene quantities? Either way, it was obvious that a life of crime had not been kind of Bolden or his family.

They got in through a window. It had been latched, but the lock was broken. It was barely forced entry. The apartment was dark. At least a month's worth of dust covered everything from the kitchen counters to the dingy sofa in front of the tiny outdated television.

Batman swiped a finger across the metal sink. It too was covered in dust, but was otherwise spotless. The same could be said of the counters and floor. The whole place was tidy and neat. There were no dirty dishes in the sink or on the counter, all of them were put away in cabinets. The inside of the fridge was carefully ordered, but the perishables were past their dates by a week or more, some were growing hair.

"Someone kept this house," Batman commented, "But whoever it was, they haven't been here in awhile. And neither has anyone else."

Robin picked up a framed picture on the coffee table and turned it towards Batman. It was a photograph of the entire Bolden family, the only one of whom they had reason to recognize being Jeremy Bolden, standing by the side of a red-haired beauty holding a baby girl while Jeremy kept a staying hand on the shoulder of a young boy.

Batman nodded and Robin set the photograph down, careful to make sure the placement and angle was exactly as he'd found it, fitting the stand precisely into the three dust-free spots.

Batman drifted down the hall into one of the bedrooms. Robin poked about in the bathroom. Nothing was disturbed. Towels were hung precisely on the rack, a fresh bar of soap was in the dish, hair care and skin products were neatly arranged on the tiny counter. There was a little painted step stool between the sink and the toilet, presumably so the little kid could stand on it to wash his hands.

The tub was cheap, but very clean. The curtains were worn, but they had been carefully patched together and kept clean, just like everything in this place.

"The wife must have been a neat freak," Robin murmured when he regrouped with Batman in the kid's bedroom, "Even the linoleum under the bathroom rug shines."

Batman knew Robin's comment was not meant as a derogatory one. He had been known to call Alfred a 'neat freak', even though he loved Alfred dearly. In truth, the both of them appreciated the butler's attention to neatness and fine detail. It helped cover up the fact that they were hardly ever home. Between work, school and the nightlife, the house might as well be abandoned.

"No purse," Batman grunted, which didn't seem entirely related.

"Come again?"

"There were three purses in the closet, all of them empty. The purse she was using is not in the apartment. Whenever she was taken, she wasn't at home."

"She probably has a job, especially with her husband in jail."

"Then where are the kids?"

"Daycare? A friend? A sister?" Robin guessed.

"Why haven't we heard about this missing woman? Or her kids?"

"She knew she was in trouble. She didn't just leave the house for the day. She was running."

"Yes," Batman agreed, "She probably took time off from work, or maybe even quit. Then she cleaned the house until it was spotless, just like she was going on vacation."

"Packed up the kids and took off," Robin said, "But how did she know she was in danger?"

"Maybe Bolden knew," Batman replied, "or at least suspected."

"He was afraid someone would try to make him testify falsely, using his family against him," Robin said.

"So he took them off the table, sent them away."

"So whoever it was had to make him disappear. They didn't have any leverage to make him say what they wanted, so they had to make him vanish, just like all the other witnesses."

"You were right," Batman commented, "Bolden is smarter than I gave him credit for."

"Not smart enough," Robin said, shaking his head, "He's probably at the bottom of a lake now."

"Maybe," Batman didn't sound convinced.

"You think he's still alive?"

"We don't know enough to be sure either way," Batman told him, "In fact, we don't even have a clear idea of what the motivations of our foe are."

"What do you mean? Obviously they're trying to make sure William Bernard walks."

"Yes," Batman agreed slowly, as though he was not even sure of that, "But why?"

"What do you mean why?" Robin demanded, "It's got to be Wilson, or someone he hired. He wants his uncle to go free. Assuming Wilson is actually related to Bernard."

"You're jumping to conclusions again," Batman warned.

"What other reason could there be?"

"I don't know," Batman admitted, "Yet."

He climbed out the window to the fire escape. Robin noticed it wasn't as easy for him as some things. The window wasn't really quite big enough to accommodate Batman's bulk plus the cape and cowl. Batman slipped out with practiced ease, but it _did_ require practice.

_The true bane of Batman's existence,_ Robin thought with a smirk, _Small windows._

Batman noticed his expression and looked like he would ask about it. He often failed to see humor in situations, especially when they involved him. Had anyone been watching, Robin wouldn't have cracked a smile. It was important for him to be as impressed with Batman as the bad guys, at least publicly. And there was no denying it, Batman was a truly exceptional creature of the night.

But before Batman said anything, there was a soft hissing, a quiet thunk of something hard striking against something soft, and Batman grunted in surprise. He put a hand to his neck and withdrew a dart.

"Batman!" Robin hopped onto the window sill, preparing to lend his assistance.

But Batman stepped back from the window, turned and gazed out at the night. Across the street, a small figure darted from the edge of a rooftop, dashing for their own fire escape.

"I'm fine," Batman growled, waving towards the retreating figure, "Stop them!"

Batman took up most of the fire escape, so Robin clambered out onto the railing, which swayed under his weight, creaking on rusty supports. Robin measured the distance to the ground and jumped, tucked and rolled, hit the sidewalk running.

It was early in the evening, the end of a weekend. The sidewalks weren't exactly crowded, but they had their share of pedestrians, many of whom leaped back and gasped when Robin landed among them. He paid them no heed, darting out into the street, ignoring the blaring of angry car horns.

The street was rough, uneven and badly in need of paving. It forced the cars to drive slowly. Otherwise Robin would have shown a bit more caution in crossing. A bit, but not much.

Batman had sent Robin after this quarry, and Robin didn't want to disappoint him. Robin possessed a fiercely competitive spirit, but also the vague insecurity that came from not truly belonging. In spite of the years they'd spent together, Batman still wasn't really Robin's father. Robin seldom thought about it on a conscious level, but he was constantly trying to prove he was equal to being Batman's partner, that he was a valued member of the team.

Batman was little help in that department. He was Batman. He needed no one to help him. It didn't matter what the situation was, or who the adversary was. Batman could handle it. But not tonight.

The rough street prevented Robin from sprinting, and his quarry was fast. From the third floor rooftop, they had leaped down their own fire escape on the outside, holding to the railing, swinging, dropping to the next railing down, then to the ground.

Small, light, but agile. Robin guessed a teenager, but did not ignore the possibility that it might be a woman. But they were wearing a black jacket with a hood, and heavy black fatigues. The boots revealed small feet, and they were about Robin's height, maybe shorter.

They hit the ground, looking over their shoulder. The face was in shadow, Robin couldn't make out any details, but he suspected they were wearing something across the lower half of their face. And then his quarry took off running. They were fast, but Robin was reasonably sure he was faster.

They bounded into the alley, Robin chasing after them. They knocked over trash cans, and he leaped over the sudden obstacles without breaking stride. He knew the end of the alley was blocked by a chain link fence. It could be climbed, but that would take precious seconds. He had his quarry.

The alley was a winding one, covering half the block, wedged between huge buildings like the filling in an Oreo. Ahead of him, Robin saw his quarry take the first turn, cornering wide like a race car, favoring speed over distance. They had to know their exit was blocked.

Robin took the corner more slowly, turning tightly against the wall and at the same time ducking down. He'd guessed right, his quarry had stopped to try and throw him off. Something winged past his head and shattered against the wall behind him.

Seeing they'd missed, the runner turned and fled. Robin felt a stinging at the back of his neck, some of the glass from the broken bottle must have bounced off the wall. But he didn't have time to think about that just yet.

He started after his quarry anew, but then came to a sudden halt. A high, terrible scream blasted through the air, coming from the direction Robin had a moment before. It was blood-curdling, but there was something more than that. Robin didn't know what.

His mind flashed rapid images of the dart, Batman, the street, the people. Instinct flooded through him, and he'd turned around before he even thought. He took the corner of the alley so fast he crashed into the wall and staggered. But he kept going, because now he could see what had happened.

He ran back the way he'd come, stumbling once as his weak leg tried to give out on him. He'd hurt it again when he came around the corner. Robin let himself fall, rolled and got back to his feet, continued running. Out of the alley and onto the sidewalk, then into the street.

Brakes squealed, cars honked, one would have hit him if he hadn't jumped over the hood. Robin didn't absorb any of it. All he saw was what lay ahead. And all he felt was fear twisting in his gut.

* * *

The police had been called. Someone had noticed two people breaking into and entering an apartment. Commissioner Gordon suspected Batman was involved, so he had come with the officers dispatched to the scene. As they were on their way, they received a new report over the radio. Something had happened, though it was unclear from the hysterical callers exactly what it was.

Turning onto the street, Gordon knew, and felt his blood run cold.

A dark form lay crumpled on the sidewalk, unidentifiable except that the signature cape of Batman was draped over it. And Gordon would have been able to guess anyway, because Robin was kneeling beside the form, glaring at the people crowding around, yelling at them to back off.

As the police car pulled alongside the curb, a daring soul darted forward and touched the cape of the fallen Dark Knight. Like lightning, Robin struck out at the offender and they drew back. Gordon heard their yelp of pain as he opened the door and climbed out of the car.

"Touch him again and I tear you apart," Robin snarled as he stood up, then turned his gaze on the crowd which was pressing in on all sides, "That goes for the rest of you too!"

For a moment, Gordon couldn't figure why they were here if one of them was injured. Typically, they made a swift getaway and Gordon never got to see how badly they might be hurt. But then he knew.

Batman was lying still on the ground, either unconscious or dead. Cars were haphazardly arranged up and down the street. The curious had cluttered the entire block with their vehicles, making it impossible to get the batmobile onto the street. Robin was about half the size of Batman. He might be able to carry the larger man, but not quickly, and not while trying to fend off the increasingly handsy crowd.

As the Boy Wonder turned to keep an eye on the people behind him, Gordon saw blood on the back of his neck. After that, he noticed Robin favoring one leg, keeping the weight off it, but trying not to make it obvious he was doing so, trying not to look injured in any way.

"Police. Give us room. Move back, move back!" Bullock roared at the crowd; sometimes Harvey Bullock's brusque manner was a good thing.

He shoved his way through the crowd bodily, and Gordon followed him. Near where Batman lay was a silver object, which Gordon identified as a dart, like the kind you used to tranquilize wild animals. A piece of paper was attached to the point of it.

Robin crouched lower as Bullock and Gordon approached, his eyes suspicious. That sort of hurt Gordon's feelings, even though he knew why Robin didn't trust him. He knew Batman trusted him, inasmuch as the Caped Crusader trusted anyone. Robin was clearly a different matter. Gordon had always suspected Robin worked with him only because of Batman. He'd never gotten the impression Robin was really comfortable with him.

Robin knelt down, putting one hand on Batman's back. He was acting protectively, or perhaps even possessively. But there was another hidden motive. He was kneeling on his weak leg, hiding that he was favoring it, hiding the weakness as a form of self defense.

_Do something_, he seemed to say as he looked from Gordon to Bullock, _Help us._


	4. Chapter 4

"Can you drive?" Gordon asked.

Robin's eyes flashed as though he felt that he'd been insulted.

"You know I can," Robin spat, though his anger seemed to be without apparent direction.

Gordon had always believed that it might happen someday that Batman would need him. He had no illusions about Batman. He was certain Batman was just as human as he was, that he had his own limitations. He'd even seen Batman get hurt before. But somehow... he wasn't prepared for it.

"I meant, ah," Gordon gestured to the back of his neck.

Robin blinked, then reached up a hand to touch the back of his own neck. He flinched visibly. His black glove came back not only bloody, but with a chunk of glass that looked like it had come from a beer bottle. Robin looked at it without apparent feeling. He put the glass in one of the pockets of his utility belt. Not leaving any blood behind. Taking no chances.

"If I get you off this street, can you take care of yourself?" Gordon asked.

Robin didn't answer. He seemed to be weighing his options. He didn't like them. But he didn't take long. The hand he'd rested on Batman's shoulder trembled slightly. Setting his jaw, Robin leaned down and threw Batman's right arm around his neck. He heaved upward, staggering to his feet.

Gordon moved to help him.

"Back off," Robin snapped fiercely.

"What are we doing, Commish?" Bullock inquired.

"Clear a path," Gordon said, feeling an explanation was not required.

The crowd had closed in around them again, but parted at Bullock's shouting and bullying. If they didn't move as instructed, he'd push them. Bullock was not above a little roughing up of the general public if that was required to get their respect.

Robin staggered under Batman's dead weight. Batman did not move, gave no indication of consciousness, and only breathed shallowly to prove he was alive. Gordon picked up the dart as they passed it, and read the note quickly.

"_Stay out of the Bernard Trial"_ it read simply, and there was a signature beneath that. _"-The Black Wasp"_ with a little drawing of a black insect with a curved body and red wings next to it, presumably a wasp.

"Who's this Black Wasp?" Gordon asked, momentarily forgetting that Robin was currently struggling with his own problems and was in no position to give any answers, even if he had them.

Gordon was used to relying on Batman and Robin to not only take care of themselves, but to have more information about the various wackos in Gotham than he did.

"Can we talk about this later?" Robin gasped, then stumbled and would have gone down had Gordon not reached out and caught him, being careful not to touch Batman.

He'd taken Robin's threat to heart, and assumed it applied to him as well as the crowd. Robin shrank away from him, barely maintaining his balance and hold on Batman as he did so. In that moment, Gordon had felt the boy shaking, and realized it wasn't anger he was hearing. It was fear.

Gordon took in the scene anew. Robin was exposed, and Batman was helpless. They were illuminated by various headlights, closely surrounded by Gotham residents, and getting up close and personal with the police. Robin was afraid he or Batman would be recognized. Gordon had always suspected he knew Batman and possibly Robin without their masks, but he'd never tried to guess who they were.

It was better if he didn't know. He'd never wanted to know, and he certainly didn't now.

That's why Robin wanted hands off, why he was insisting on dragging Batman by himself. He didn't want Gordon to get too close and take in their facial features in the light, or get a good idea of how tall they were, or how heavy, or any scars they might have, any identifying marks.

Gordon hadn't even thought about it before. Batman had stood right next to him a hundred times. But the cape and cowl disguised height and weight, the shadows hid what little of his face could be seen. Batman might have trusted him implicitly, but he was always careful. Robin was just less subtle.

Gordon held open the back door of the police cruiser. Hesitantly, Robin heaved Batman across the back seat. The Dark Knight seemed to fill the entire back. Robin didn't get in himself, eying the protective grid between the front and back seats, and the absence of manual locks on the back doors. He was not going to allow himself to be locked in the back.

"Handle things here," Gordon instructed Bullock, then climbed into the driver's side of the car.

Robin looked like he would have preferred to confiscate the car by himself, but evidently he accepted the fact that it would have been dangerous for him to drive at present. He reluctantly climbed into the shotgun seat, crossed his arms and turned towards the window.

They pulled away from the curb, neither one speaking. Gordon glanced at Robin out of the corner of his eye. The crossed arms and clenched jaw could not hide the fear in the masked face, nor could it prevent Gordon from seeing that Robin was shaking, perhaps from the exertion, maybe from fear, possibly something even worse.

"Who is the Black Wasp?" He repeated.

"I don't know," Robin replied curtly, "I didn't get a good look. They were maybe five nine, five ten at the outside. A hundred and forty pounds, maybe less. Hard to tell. They were wearing a black jacket. It had that bug emblazoned on the back, in red," he indicated the note with a nod of his head.

"Male or female?" Gordon asked.

Robin took the note, read it, shrugged.

"I'm not so good recognizing handwriting," Robin admitted, it sounded like it wounded his pride to do so, "But first guess is female. It also looks kind of like mine would. Young, inexperienced other than in school, nothing fancy or formal."

Gordon cast a sidelong glance at Robin. He wondered if Robin could really see all that in the handwriting. If it were Batman, there'd be no doubt. But Robin... how much did he actually know?

"Where are we going?" Robin asked, looking out the windshield.

"A few blocks away," Gordon replied, "From there, it's up to you."

"Good," Robin nodded, returning his attention to the note.

"So you know all that, but you don't know who it is? No suspects?" Gordon pressed.

"None I'd care to discuss," Robin spat, then sighed like he regretted the acidity of his remark.

Gordon was a parent, his daughter was probably around Robin's age. Sometimes he forgot how young the kid was. But he remembered now that Robin had been growing, getting taller, all the time he'd known him. Gordon could remember when Robin was just a little imp, scampering around on the rooftop, peering over the edge at the cars below, examining the bat signal curiously, never still, never at ease, yet always ready with a quip.

At first Gordon had wondered about Batman's judgment, bringing a kid into his dark and dangerous world. But he'd seen that Robin had a darker side, a dangerous side. Without Batman, Robin might well have become a very different person, possibly a formidable adversary.

Gordon had never questioned Batman about it, and was later glad he hadn't. Batman clearly knew what he was doing. He knew more than Gordon had ever suspected.

Through Robin, the legacy of Batman had gained a kind of immortality. Batman himself would eventually grow old and die, Gordon was almost certain of that. And Gotham would still need a dark hero. Robin might be that in the future.

But right now, he was just a scared kid, despite the getup and coldness in his voice.

"It's okay to be scared," Gordon said gently, using a tone he normally reserved for his own child.

Robin looked at him sharply, but then looked away, flinching as though he'd been struck. He evidently didn't like that Gordon had seen through his act and become aware of his private fear.

"For you, maybe," Robin said quietly, "Not for me."

Gordon pulled the car over and parked. He waited while Robin pulled Batman out of the back, dragging him off into the shadows. Gordon hesitated, but he'd done all he could. All Robin would allow. He had to get back to the scene of the crime.

Robin stepped away from Batman for a moment and Gordon rolled down the window.

"You wanted me as a witness," Robin said, "I'll be your surprise witness."

"The trial starts tomorrow," Gordon said, handing Robin the dart and note, knowing if he didn't Robin would take them on his own.

"I know. I'll be there," Robin stepped back from the car.

Gordon rolled up the window, shifted gears and turned the car around, then drove away.

* * *

Robin waited for him to be gone before using the remote device to get the batmobile out of hiding. Maybe it wasn't safe for him to drive, but it would be even less safe to call Alfred and bring him here, so close to where the crowds and police were. Alfred must not be connected with Batman. _Ever_.

The batmobile arrived quietly, its engine purring rather than roaring. Robin half-dragged, half-threw Batman into the passenger seat, then slid into the driver's side. He had to adjust the seat, the mirrors, everything. Batman was a lot bigger than he was.

Impulsively, Robin reached across and felt Batman's neck. There was still a pulse, slow but steady. He was barely breathing, but it sounded less like his airways were blocked and more like inhaling took more effort than he could manage. But he was still alive.

Robin breathed a shaky sigh of relief, noticing for the first time since he fell that his leg hurt like anything. The back of his neck burned, and he could feel that there was still glass in his skin, that he was still bleeding a bit. He felt slightly lightheaded, but figured that was from the adrenaline rushing in an unchecked flood through his system.

Taking a breath, he put the batmobile into gear. He was halfway home before he realized his mistake. He swung the batmobile around and headed towards Leslie Thompkins'. Batman had been poisoned, that much Robin knew. He knew that he and Alfred wouldn't be enough. Batman needed an actual doctor. Robin realized with some surprise that he'd never driven to Leslie's clinic before.

He'd been there, she'd been the one to care for him after Supay the jaguar tore his leg to shreds. But he'd never come here on his own. Not even once.

Never before had it fallen to him to get them out of a situation. Batman had always been able to handle it, even if he was poisoned or shot or stabbed or whatever. He could make it as far as was necessary. He had never really needed help before.

And that was part of what had Robin so shaken.

He knew, better than anyone, that Batman was mortal, subject to the same weaknesses as any man. But, in spite of that knowledge, some part of him had come to believe in Batman's immortality.

That illusion had just been brutally shattered.

Robin glanced at Batman, his heart constricting in fear each time his friend's chest fell, terrified each and every breath would be the very last.

The batmobile swung recklessly around a curb, roaring onto an empty street. Robin knew not to park in the open, in front of Leslie's clinic. There was a covered garage in back, and a door. Robin swung around to the back, and almost drove right through the back wall, hitting the brakes too late and too hard.

"There goes my driver's license," Robin muttered, more to calm himself than anything.

He yanked at his seat belt, fumbling with the clasp. And then he was out of the batmobile and into the building. Once inside, he hung back, in the shadows, seeking Leslie. He spotted her, stood in her line of vision, just outside the room until she nodded, acknowledging that she'd seen him.

He then retreated to one of the empty rooms and waited, fidgeting nervously. He wanted to get back to Batman, but it would do no good to stand over him, and there was no subtle way to move him in here until Leslie's current patient had gone.

* * *

Leslie dismissed her patient, who was suffering nothing more than hay fever. Then she went to one of the rooms in the back, a room she never sent patients to. It was where Batman came. She entered the room, surprised to see Robin alone.

He looked nervous, deathly pale. Sweat ran across his skin, there was blood on the back of his neck. His eyes and hair were wild, and he was standing almost exclusively on one foot.

"What have you done to yourself this time?" Leslie asked, crossing her arms and trying to hide her sympathy for the wounded, "My goodness, you're as bad as he is. That leg isn't ready to be pounded on yet. I hope you'll start listening to me someday."

"Please," Robin's voice was weak, barely a whisper, "Not right now. Not tonight."

Leslie uncrossed her arms, suddenly alarmed. Normally Robin would just grin at her tirade, sometimes even giggle, like he found the whole idea of being concerned about his welfare terribly funny.

She stepped towards him and put a hand on his forehead. He drew back at once, as though stung.

"No. Not me. It's Batman," he shook his head miserably, "_Bruce_. I think he's dying."

* * *

"He's not dying," Leslie said.

Robin was so relieved he almost fell down. He was still lightheaded, so deeply and inexplicably afraid that Batman would die that he could hardly breathe. He put his hands on the edge of the hospital bed and leaned heavily, letting out a shuddering breath.

"What then?" Robin asked, "Sedated?"

"No. Paralyzed," Leslie replied.

Robin looked up sharply, trying to read the implications in her time weathered face.

"I haven't discovered what toxin was used yet," Leslie told him, "But I expect to find out soon, once I've run a few tests. In the meantime, he can hear us and it's likely his mind is sharp as ever, but he couldn't lift a finger if his life depended on it."

"I know," Robin said, "And it did. So how long will he be..." he gestured to the bed.

"Paralyzed. The word doesn't bite, Dick." Leslie said, "It's hard to say without knowing what did it, or what the concentration was. Having the dart will be a help. It had a few untainted drops inside it. My guess, you should be able to take him home in forty-eight hours."

"Forty-eight hours? Why not now?" Robin asked.

"Right at the moment, his breathing is assisted. Until he can breathe normally on his own, I want to keep a close eye on him. But I have a clinic to run, so I need to be here, not traipsing through the countryside at all hours, looking in on Bruce Wayne of all people. Especially with the coming media frenzy," Leslie's words took a moment to sink in.

"Media frenzy?" Robin blinked, "There weren't any news people there."

"No, but there _were_ people. How much proof do you think they'll need to run with a 'is this the end of Batman' headline? None, that's how much. When it goes public that Batman was injured, people will be looking in hospitals, watching doctors, trying to find out who he is through his physician."

"Oh," Robin said weakly, "I hadn't thought of that."

"You don't think of a lot of things," Leslie said in a scolding tone, "In spite of what you believe."

Robin looked at the floor and just nodded meekly. He was shaken by events, more than he wanted to let on. He'd been scared to death that he was going to lose Bruce, that Gotham would lose Batman. He wasn't ready to say goodbye, or to take on the responsibility of being Gotham's guardian angel. He was no Batman, not yet anyway.

"In the meantime," Leslie said, then broke off for a moment, her faced lined with concern, "Are you listening? Dick... you look positively ill. Come here, sit down, let me examine you."

"I'm okay," Robin said, but his tone lacked conviction.

"Come. _Sit_," Leslie repeated in a tone even the most willful jackass couldn't disobey.


	5. Chapter 5

Robbed of the support of the bed, Robin's shaking became more apparent. He sat heavily in the chair, surprised by how little his legs could support him. Leslie began her examination at the back of his neck.

"What did they do? Crack a bottle over your head?" Leslie asked.

"No. Just near it," Robin replied evenly, "The glass shards bounced."

"Uh-uh. This glass is in too deep," Leslie said in a reproachful tone.

"That's what happened," Robin insisted, then he remembered, "I fell after that."

"That would do it," Leslie said, beginning to pick the glass out of his neck, "You should have known better than to roll with glass stuck in you like that. What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't," Robin admitted, his voice flat, "Not then, not the whole way here."

"That's not like you," Leslie said, pausing in her ministrations to push a gray hair out of her face with the back of one hand, "You're reckless, but I've never known you to be stupid. You do realize this glass could have cut your spinal cord. You'd have been almost as paralyzed as Bruce. And far more permanently. You have got to be more careful."

_Yes, Mom,_ he thought but didn't dare say.

"Okay," Leslie said, having finished cleaning the wound, "Now let's see the leg."

"I took a bad step. Twisted my ankle," Robin frowned.

"That's easy to do when you're putting more stress on muscles and tendons than they're ready for."

Robin didn't roll his eyes, much as he wanted to. He wanted to blow Leslie off, but the truth was that she was right and knew it, knew he knew it, and she wouldn't let him off implying she didn't.

"I'd tell you to go home and rest, or try and rest here with him. But you're not going to take my advice," Leslie said with a dismissive shrug, "So I'll do us both a favor and save my breath."

Batman, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, heard and understood all.

_No, Leslie. Make him stay. Make him stop,_ he thought desperately.

But he couldn't say it. And, even if he could have, he knew nothing and no one would stop Robin from trying to find the Black Wasp, even if it meant feeding himself to the wolves tomorrow morning. If he could have, Batman would have tried to stop him, doing whatever was necessary, up to and including tying him down and sitting on him. But he couldn't.

He lay helpless, unable to even watch as Robin left silently.

"I hope that boy knows what he's doing," Leslie said, seeming to address herself more than Batman until she added, "He's a lot like you. Too much, actually. Headstrong, driven, scared to death of failure. Especially failing you."

Batman closed his eyes, and fought to control his breathing. He had to get mobile again. And soon.

He should never have sent Robin after the Black Wasp. But when he'd been struck by the dart, pain had flared through him so violently and completely that all he could think was that the person who'd done it was getting away. All he could think was that a criminal was fleeing the scene of a crime, and must be stopped at any cost. It was all he could think.

And then he'd lost all muscle control and fallen. Fallen hard. He was sure his shoulder ought to hurt where it had struck pavement, but he only felt numb now. He was tired too. Thinking was a huge chore. Wearily, unwillingly, he closed his eyes and slept.

* * *

Robin landed on the balcony from above, then cocked his head to listen. The hotel was dark and quiet, even at this relatively early hour. Early for Robin, late for normal people.

Robin popped the lock on the sliding glass door and pushed it aside. Quietly, he entered Melina's hotel room, looking for signs that she was there. He'd suspected she was up to something since talking to her earlier in the evening. She'd been hiding something, been more guarded than usual.

Besides, who else would use the tarantula hawk as their calling card? The black wasp had stung not only Robin, but also Bernard and even Supay the jaguar. It had been a huge factor in changing Melina's life, supposedly for the better. But it didn't add up. Why would Melina go after Batman?

The combined living, dining and kitchen area was empty. Robin knew Melina had arrived with nothing but a duffle bag slung over her shoulder. She resisted any and all maid-like activities, including cooking. But she also preferred to keep her living space neat. She wouldn't have touched the kitchen, but instead would have gone out to eat, not even ordering takeout because that would leave her with a mess she had to clean up.

The hotel room looked almost as though it were unoccupied as a result. Except for the door chain, which was locked, meaning the room had to be occupied. Unless she'd gone out the window and locked it behind her, which didn't make any sense. No, Melina had to be here.

Robin went to the partially open bedroom door. Melina appeared to be asleep, her lithe body tangled luxuriously in the white sheets. She was only wearing underwear, so Robin quickly looked away from her in deference to her sense of modesty. Sure, she was asleep and wouldn't know the difference, but Robin would, and it wouldn't be right to stare at her.

But he couldn't just leave. He still felt certain that she must be the Black Wasp. He slipped silently into the bedroom, keeping his eyes on the sliding closet door. He pushed it aside and looked at the objects within it. The closet was largely empty, designed to hold an entire wardrobe.

A windbreaker hung from one of the many coat hangers. On the floor were a few pairs of shoes. A pair of red and white tennis shoes, brown hiking boots and a pair of heels.

Robin left the closet, and went to the dresser. In its drawers he found some t-shirts, long-sleeved shirts, carefully folded blouses, jeans, short skirts, some underwear and socks... nothing incriminating.

It did nothing to allay his suspicions. He moved on to the tiny bathroom. It was undisturbed except for a tapestry bag with female amenities in it and a slightly damp hand towel.

The longer he stuck around, the worse Robin felt about the whole thing. He was snooping through his friend's private things, casting her in a suspicious light without any proof or reason to suspect her.

But he couldn't forget the whole thing and go. He had seen the shooter move. Graceful as a dancer, fast as a sprinter, agile as a cat. Moving exactly like Melina did every day of her life, only at a hundred times speed. But the same movements, right down to way they took turns.

With a sense of guilt at his lack of guilt, Robin went to the bed and looked under it. There was a trunk there, and he felt unease rippling through him. That had not arrived with Melina. He knew because he'd seen her arrive. He hadn't been spying. She'd asked him to keep an eye on her, because she'd never been to a big city like Gotham and she was a little scared.

When she hit, it was with the force and precision of a bird of prey. Robin sensed the blow before it hit him, but it was too late to avoid it. She struck like a cobra, hitting him square in the back of the neck. Robin hit the floor with a pained gasp, and immediately rolled.

Her heel struck down where his back had been a moment before. She spun and crouched low, trying to find where he'd gone. Robin had slipped into the deeper shadows, and was sizing up his opponent, who was illuminated by a shaft of moonlight coming through the curtained window.

He'd never thought about fighting Melina before, but he knew more about her than anyone he'd ever faced. He knew her movements, her tendencies. She was his friend, and his observance was not something which he could turn on and off like a light switch.

"Robin?" her voice was dry from sleep, and her initial attack had been sluggish and without real force.

It had still hurt, she'd hit right where the glass had been embedded.

"Robin!" Melina dropped her fighting stance like a hot potato, straightening up and fumbling for the lamp at her bedside, "What are you doing here? My goodness, I thought you were a burglar. Or worse."

Robin blinked in the sudden light of the lamp, not quite ready to abandon his own defensive stance. He could feel that blood was running on the back of his neck beneath the bandage Leslie had stuck there.

"What do you know about this?" Robin held the silver dart up in the light, his eyes accusing.

Melina looked uncertain. A cascade of conflicting emotions played across her features. She had been frightened at the intruder, relieved to find it was Robin, but once again afraid because he was sneaking around her hotel room, and now she looked baffled and more scared than before.

"It... it looks like a tranquilizer dart," Melina said, approaching slowly and taking the dart from Robin's gloved hand, stepping back quickly as though fearful that he would strike her.

Robin felt badly about scaring her. He had meant to intimidate her, but he'd forgotten for a moment that she had been badly abused at the hands of men, men who came in the night without invitation or warning. That had to be awful for her. And Robin was awful for inflicting that terror on her.

"Where's it from?" Melina asked, handing the dart back.

"Does the name 'Black Wasp' mean anything to you?" Robin asked, avoiding her question in favor of his own.

She shook her head slowly, strands of tangled hair falling across her dark eyes. She brushed them aside.

"Should it?"

With a sigh, Robin proceeded to explain the events of the night, and revealed why he had come here. He had not lost all suspicion, but the fact was that Melina _was_ his friend. And too, he knew she had learned a hard lesson about revenge and killing. The price of that lesson had been a high one for Robin, but he felt that she'd learned it well and it was therefore worth it.

When he was finished, Melina sat down on the edge of her bed. She made no attempt to cover herself, as though she'd forgotten she was practically naked.

"So you thought I was the wasp," Melina said.

Robin expected her to be angry, or at least to feign anger if she was really the Black Wasp.

"It makes sense," Melina told him, startling him, "I mean, I come into town, this wasp character shows up around the same time with an interest in Bernard... I get why you're here. But what were you looking for under the bed? All my stuff is in the dresser and closet."

"There's a trunk under there," Robin said, "It's not yours?"

Melina bent double and looked under the bed. Her hair fell from her back and hung below her head, its ends brushing against the floor. She flipped it back when she resumed her sitting position.

"It's not mine," she said with a shrug.

"Then whose is it? And what's it doing here?"

* * *

The trunk proved to contain a black jacket with a hood and a red wasp on the back, a small pile of stationary with threats scribbled on them, a gun for firing darts of the kind Robin had brought with him, black fatigues and a ski mask. Only the boots were missing, and those could easily have been the hiking boots in the closet. Except that this gun hadn't been recently fired, and the jacket did not appear to have been worn. It had no spots, no bits of dirt, no stray hairs, none of the things that any jacket which had been worn would have. The fatigues were creased where they were folded, and even had that fresh from the store smell. The darts cases were empty.

More than anything, this trunk cleared away Robin's suspicions. If Melina was the Black Wasp, she wouldn't have an extra costume and equipment lying under her bed. And, if she did have this lying around, she would also have been careless enough to leave the outfit and gun she'd used around too.

Robin winced as he stood up from examining the trunk.

"Your neck still hurt?" Melina asked.

"A little bit," Robin lied.

In truth, he was getting one blinding headache and the back of his neck felt like it was burning. But that didn't matter right now. What mattered was that someone was going to a lot of trouble to frame Melina, going so far as to leave this trunk in her hotel room. That someone knew that she would be the first suspect, though what motivation she could have for wanting Bernard to go free was anybody's guess.

"I'm really sorry. If I'd known it was you-"

"You should have hit me harder," Robin told her, "I had no right to be here, invading your privacy."

"You were looking for someone who tried to kill your friend," Melina said, "I'm surprised you didn't drag me out of bed by my hair. If I were you, I'd believe I was the Black Wasp."

"Yeah well..." Robin trailed off with a shrug.

"The only thing that puzzles me is that you are the one who taught me what little self defense I know. Surely you could recognize my skills from anyone else's."

"I never actually engaged the Black Wasp," Robin said, "Only chased her. Or him."

"You think now that it was a man?"

"I'm not ruling anything out," Robin replied.

"I hope that means you will continue to suspect me," Melina said, putting a delicate hand on his arm.

"Why would you want that?" he asked, surprised.

"I would be disappointed if you let your personal feelings prevent you from doing your job," Melina said, "This trunk proves nothing. I could have placed it there to frame myself. And you already know that I once intended to kill. Might I not do so again?"

"I don't believe that, Melina," Robin said gently, "You've come too far, done too much to let it all go to waste just to get Bernard to go free. Besides, why would you want him out instead of in jail?"

"Perhaps I think he is an easier target outside of jail? Perhaps I still want him dead," Melina suggested with a playful smile, but her eyes were serious, "Please. If you have reason to suspect me, act on it. Get to the truth, Robin. Find this Black Wasp and bring them to justice."


	6. Chapter 6

Judge Andreovich was, despite his name, thoroughly American. His grandparents had immigrated when his father was an infant. His father had grown up and married an Italian. Andreovich had the piercing gaze and voice of a Russian, but he otherwise appeared more Italian than anything. His father had hardly any accent, Andreovich himself spoke only a few scattered words in either Russian or Italian. He was, first and foremost, an American, and had devoted his entire life to his beloved country.

He had taken full advantage of the educational system, earning a law degree by the time he was eighteen after having skipped a number of grades ahead, and then gone on to serve in the Air Force. He had come back from his tour of duty, become a lawyer, and then eventually gone on to be a judge.

He was devoted to justice, his sense of right and wrong was highly refined. And, to him, there was nothing less American than the trial which he was presiding over today.

It was about politics. The question of guilt had already been answered in blood, but the legal system needed to jump through its hoops, and it was looking unsettlingly like William Bernard was going to walk away Scot-free. That made Andreovich angry.

Even so, he was a good judge, and knew his place in these proceedings. He would be fair and impartial, leaving his opinions and fury outside of the courtroom where they belonged. Personal opinion and gooey feelings had no place in court.

However, he had allowed Aaron Mitchel, the prosecuting attorney, to talk him into allowing a surprise witness. Andreovich already knew who that witness was, and ordinarily would not have allowed it. But Aaron had fiercely argued his case, and it seemed highly likely the whole case would hinge on this witness' testimony. Andreovich wasn't happy about it, but he was allowing it.

He knew Wilson would raise Hell about it, but he didn't care. This was his courtroom.

"Call your next witness," Andreovich instructed Mitchel.

"I'd like to call Robin to the stand."

There was were murmurs in the audience. Bernard whispered something to Wilson, who nodded.

In response to the call, Robin stepped through the door Andreovich had entered through earlier. It had been necessary to keep him concealed until he was called upon, or so he had insisted.

Andreovich hadn't spoken directly to Robin, only to Mitchel. Andreovich looked the witness up and down, as did everyone in the courtroom. He looked most decidedly ridiculous, appearing in court wearing a cape, mask and tights.

He stood there confidently, his impassive gaze daring someone to mock him, or question his right to be here. Nobody said anything for the moment. Robin didn't have much of a reputation, but his master or partner -or whatever-the-hell Batman was to him- did.

"Will you take the stand, please," Andreovich spoke it more as an order than a question.

Robin looked at him for a moment, nodded in a curt but agreeable manner, and crossed to the stand.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

While Robin agreed to this, Andreovich found himself wondering if a masked vigilante could be trusted to follow through on that. Did they even believe in God? If not, then what good was swearing them in?

"Please state your name for the record."

"Robin."

"Your full name, please."

Robin stared at the man and was silent.

"Your full name, please," he repeated.

"That's the only name you get," Robin said.

"Objection," Wilson said, rising, "Witness is concealing their identity. How can we know anything they say is true if we don't know who they are?"

"My name," Robin retorted sharply before anyone could stop him, "is Robin."

"I'll allow it, considering the circumstances," Andreovich said mildly.

"And what circumstances might those be?" Wilson argued, "You're defending a vigilante? A known law breaker? This is outrageous."

"Please be seated, Mr. Wilson," Andreovich said, but it was not a request.

Andreovich resisted a sigh. This was highly irregular, and it wasn't going to be easy to get through this. A masked vigilante shouldn't be an eligible witness, for the obvious reasons.

* * *

"I might have known," Leslie commented.

Batman heard her cross the room, noticed the soft rustling of papers in her hand, the printed results of her testing. He had his own suspicions about what she'd found.

"Pepsis grossa," Leslie said, fully aware Batman could hear her, "In other words: spider wasp or, to be more precise, tarantula hawk."

The Black Wasp. Or _a_ black wasp anyway.

That explained the level of pain Batman had experienced, and the hot red swelling on his neck where the dart had struck him. More than a physical impact, the pain was emotional. It conveyed with a single tiny prick, exactly how fragile life is. It hadn't felt like death itself, more like the sharp razor edge between, barring the way. The electrifying shock of it had assured him that he was alive, while at the same time unleashing a terrible dread. The dread that he soon would not be.

That had all faded now, but the first few minutes were intense, and all the mental discipline at his disposal had not been enough to fight off the effects.

"Much more concentrated than you'd ever find in the wild, and of a higher dosage. It's also been slightly modified," Leslie said, "Someone knew what they were doing. And they didn't want you dead. Just immobilized for the next couple of weeks."

That wasn't what he wanted to hear.

"Knowing you, you'll be talking within a day, sitting up in two and pushing to be fully active inside a week," Leslie said.

Batman found it deeply mysterious. The list of people who wanted him dead was nearly infinite. The list of those familiar with various toxins, poisons and so on, or who had access to someone who did, was almost as long as the first list. But the list of people who did not want him dead, merely disabled... well... that list didn't even exist.

Batman had people who wanted him to do what he did best, and people who wanted him dead. And anyone who would have wanted him knocked out would only have needed to briefly disable him before loading him into a getaway car and taking off (which had been done before).

This was someone who didn't even want to get near him. It had to be someone who was planning to do something they believed he would get in the way of. Something which they felt he would not go along with, but still they felt they were on his side somehow, or else why keep him alive?

He had no suspects. He knew Robin probably had one. Melina Guevara.

She had the motive. If Bernard walked, he'd be an easy target. And she'd already tried to kill him once. But she lacked the means. Melina had lived on the streets most of her life. Except for a brief period after being freed from Bernard's iron grip, Melina was completely on her own.

Bruce Wayne had provided her with school books and teachers, who came and taught her one-on-one. They were of the opinion that she was a smart girl, but wholly uneducated. She hadn't the scientific knowledge to concoct the fluid in the dart Batman had been shot with.

Robin would probably figure that out the hard way. But who did that leave?

Corin Wilson had certainly gone to a lot of trouble to get Bernard out of Arkham and jail as well. His file gave no indication that he was of a scientific background, but he probably had enough money to buy whatever he wanted. And it might well have been Bernard who gave him the theme.

After all, Bernard seemed to feel that he had been brought down by a lowly wasp. It had angered him, and he had screamed bloody murder, and insisted that Supay was the one who had destroyed him, even though the wasp had brought them both to a standstill.

Wilson seemed an unlikely candidate. He probably kept his hands pretty clean. But he could have hired someone. So could Bernard for that matter. But Bernard also seemed unlikely. He was a known killer, and would probably have tried to kill Batman rather than incapacitate him. Wilson was an unknown.

* * *

"So it is your opinion that Melvin Carver, the man you say kidnapped you, was working for Mr. Bernard?" Wilson cut an intimidating figure in his charcoal suit and red tie, but Robin felt nothing more than apathy and the mild disgust he harbored towards virtually all lawyers.

It was in their job description to twist people's words, to manipulate testimony and the perception of evidence to get what they wanted. Even when they were on your side they were still slimy as a rule. There were, of course, exceptions, but not as many as one might hope.

But Wilson had an appreciation of his big voice, broad shoulders and muscular physique, which was something the most finely tailored suit could not conceal. He wasn't exactly a big man, under six feet tall and of about average weight and build for that height. But he carried no fat, not even the little bit normal healthy people had. He was all muscle.

Wilson gazed expectantly at Robin, who couldn't help but think he looked nothing like his uncle. He was over a foot taller, his skin was much darker, and he somehow didn't seem old enough to be the offspring of Bernard's older half-brother. There was nothing of his uncle's babyish face in him, and he lacked the prominent nose. His thin lips set into a grim, hard line and it looked like he never smiled, though his dark eyes danced gleefully each time he thought he had Robin cornered.

Robin wondered vaguely when Wilson had taken over. Supposedly, he had hired someone from his firm to be the defense for Bernard. But this seemed to be Wilson's show, his performance, and he wasn't willing to give anyone else an inch.

"It is not my opinion," Robin said, but Wilson interrupted before he could go on.

"By your own admission, Carver did not tell you who he was working for. Just because my client happened to show up- if that is indeed what happened -there is no proof of a connection with Carver."

"Objection," Aaron Mitchel was up now, "According to the witness's testimony, Melvin Carver put them on a plane against their will and William Bernard locked them in a basement, also without their consent. The association between the two men does not appear relevant."

"Begging your pardon, your Honor," Wilson cut in, "But this line of questioning is relevant, which will become apparent momentarily."

"Objection overruled," Andreovich said, giving Wilson a silent look which warned him to tread carefully.

Robin already knew where Wilson was going, but he had no idea how to counter the encroaching threat. In fact, he wasn't sure why he'd even agreed to this. The back of his neck was throbbing, he felt hot in his costume, lightheaded and unsure of himself. He was having a difficult time trying to focus, and he was a bundle of nerves, unable to relieve his stress via his usual acrobatics or pacing as he was expected to remain seated for the duration of this questioning. In short, he felt like he was going to be sick, just from the sheer unadulterated terror of being on the stand.

It didn't make any sense. He was a born showman, a performer from birth. He had never once been afraid of his audience. If he was even aware of them, they were a source of confidence, their attentions were what he, as a performer, craved. He wasn't sure what was going on in his head, but it felt like a panic attack, something he'd heard described and had experienced only once and that was while under the influence of Scarecrow's drugs.

"Melvin Carver never confessed to having worked for William Bernard. Is that correct?" Wilson persisted, his eyes glittering.

Robin couldn't help feeling that the man was aware of his growing discomfort, and was amused by it. He felt his dislike of the man increasing like degrees of a fever.

"He did not," Robin conceded.

"So isn't it possible that my client simply happened across the site of the plane crash?"

"That seems unlikely," Robin said between his teeth, knowing Wilson would call him on it.

"But it is possible," Wilson persisted merciless, his eyes boring into Robin's.

"Yes," Robin growled, "It is possible."

"And is it also possible that you were disoriented by the crash?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," Robin said, though he knew exactly what Wilson meant.

"According to your testimony here today, you were not only drugged, but violently assaulted prior to the crash. You admitted to a period of unconsciousness after the crash. It is safe to assume then, that you were injured. Possibly even badly."

"What's your point?" Robin snapped.

"Is it possible that your judgment, or perception, was impaired?"

"So I had a headache," Robin shrugged dismissively, "I don't get what that has to do with anything."

"According to you, my client shot and killed Carver while he lay defenseless on the ground."

Robin remained silent.

"But I would like to postulate another theory," Wilson said, "That Carver was not shot in cold blood as you claim. That he was not, in fact, at the scene."

"Where would he have gone?" Robin asked.

"That is not relevant."

"Oh sure, my questions aren't relevant," Robin muttered.

"I suggest that in your delirious state, you imagined my client shooting Carver. Further, I suggest to you that there was no third man on the plane. That it was just you and Carver. Carver was the pilot."

"Objection: leading the witness!"

"Sustained," Andreovich said, "Mr. Wilson, you will keep your theories to yourself."

But Robin knew that the damage had been done.

Wilson had already won.


	7. Chapter 7

A brief recess was called following the presentation of Wilson's theory. Predictably, there was something of an uproar. Wilson had followed his theory with what his so-called client had told him. Bernard's claim was that he had just happened along, and that Robin had been delirious and it was necessary to restrain him. Because of who Robin was, Bernard had elected not to take him to a hospital, where he might be unmasked and instead had him treated by his own personal physician.

It was Wilson's contention that, if Robin was wrong about that, he might be wrong about a lot of things. Robin was a shaky witness to begin with, and it was unfortunate that his testimony was more likely to be moving than either Guevara or May, both of whom were confirmed as former drug abusers.

"I don't think we're winning," Robin said to Gordon.

They were still in the courthouse, walking in step down the wide hallway. Gordon knew Robin was uneasy. As open as the place seemed, there were few avenues of escape for someone like Robin, who relied heavily upon his ability to take cover swiftly. It was too open here, and there was too much light.

"Now you know why Aaron wanted you," Gordon told him.

"Somehow I don't feel like I've been making things better in there," Robin said, shaking his head and slowing slightly. Gordon changed his pace to match Robin's.

"It's only beginning," Gordon said, "Wilson's good, but Aaron is better."

"Are you kidding?" Robin stopped suddenly and turned to face Gordon, "Wilson _destroyed_ my credibility in one stroke. _I_ wouldn't believe me if I didn't know better."

"You're not the one who has to," Gordon reminded him, "That's up to the judge and jury. And I know for a fact Andreovich appreciates what's going on here. Bernard has, in essence, already been convicted. And nothing Wilson can do will change that."

"Yeah, yeah," Robin gestured indifferently, "Wilson has to gain ground, we only have to hold it. All well and good. Except that Bernie is riding on a huge reputation of being a nice guy. His opposition is tampered and missing evidence, two girls with a history of drugs and a kid so sneaky he won't even let anybody know who he really is, even to testify."

"But the facts-"

"You said yourself this isn't a trial about _facts_," Robin spat, "This is about emotions and opinions and the manipulation thereof. Nothing less, and certainly nothing more."

He broke off suddenly, going pale. Gordon had noticed him sweating on the stand, assumed it was nervousness. But now he wasn't so convinced. Robin abruptly leaned back against the wall. His breathing was slightly wheezy.

"Are you alright?" Gordon asked worriedly, restraining his instinct to give the boy a hand.

"Yeah, yeah," Robin winced and bit his lip, "Oh... nope. No," he sank down to a sitting position.

Gordon looked up and down the hall. People in suits were striding purposefully towards their goals, busy with their own concerns. If they even glanced that way, they immediately recognized the police commissioner and a masked vigilante and quickly looked away to avoid getting involved.

Gordon watched Robin, not daring to touch him. Robin was shaking against the wall, and sweat had formed on his brow. His eyes were closed for a long moment as he struggled to gain control of his breathing.

"I'm gonna have to go," Robin said quietly, looking at Gordon, "...and I may not be back."

"What do you mean by that?" Gordon asked.

"It means the trial is all yours. Make sure you keep an eye on the witnesses you've got left, because they are _all_ you have left now."

* * *

Robin knew he'd been poisoned. In truth, he'd known it all day, but he'd been denying it, even to himself. Not only did he know he'd been poisoned, he knew when and where it had happened.

It had happened in the alley, when he was chasing the Black Wasp. Evidently the wasp had an accomplice. The only thing Robin was having trouble understanding was why he hadn't been brought down like Batman. It had taken seconds to paralyze Batman to the point he could barely draw breath.

It was vaguely possible that it had something to do with different metabolisms or some nonsense like that, but Robin suspected that he was dealing with an entirely different kind of poison. This didn't feel like a paralytic. This felt like it was going to kill him.

Robin made it out of the courthouse, onto the rooftops, and down the street, before suddenly losing his balance and falling off the roof of a building. He struck against a fire escape, bounced and hit the building across the way, hit the fire escape again and finally crashed onto the lid of a dumpster before sliding off into a painful heap on the ground.

He lay on his back for awhile, trying to figure out whether he was wounded or just dying.

Some part of him resented the uncontrolled fall, like it was a personal offense to him. It hadn't been entirely uncontrolled. As he fell, Robin had tucked and checked himself, slowing his descent without being able to entirely stop it by rolling, pushing off and briefly catching things on the way down. If he'd done it right, then nothing should be broken.

Nevertheless, pain thrilled through him, agony sang in his veins like a symphony and a choir of off-key angels were ringing in his ears. It was difficult to tell which was real and which was imagined.

In any case, he didn't feel well at all.

"_That's what I get for not listening to Alfred," _he thought bleakly.

Alfred had advised against this course of action. He had labeled it not only dangerous, but also reckless, as well as being a futile gesture. Alfred had been right, of course. Wilson had ripped Robin's testimony to shreds, and would have been chewing on the remaining pieces had Robin stuck around. And now Robin had bailed out suddenly. Suspicious to people in reality, but merely a loss of informational source to the court. Anything he might have said was now lost.

But it didn't really matter. Alfred had pointed out that people would see one of two things. One, they would not look past the mask which intimidated them so. Two, they looked past the mask and realized how young Robin was, and began to theorize about how messed up he had to be to tag along with Batman. Either way, nobody would have sympathy.

As far as swaying the jury was concerned, Robin fell far short of a tearful little girl in pigtails emotionally and was a long way from a composed gentleman in a business suit intellectually.

It had been stupid to think he had any place in a courtroom. It had been stupid to go there. And, before Batman had been attacked the night before, Robin had known it too. He'd let anger cloud his judgment, looking to lash out at any target. Bernard was just the best target. If not for Bernard, they never would have been on that fire escape.

It was all for nothing though. Robin had made a mistake, a huge mistake. And now Bernard was likely to walk because of it. And Robin himself... well... he might die from it.

Slowly, painfully, Robin rolled over and struggled to his feet, using the nearest wall for balance. He limped to the head of the alley, where it terminated and met the street. Using the remote device, Robin drove the motorcycle which had brought him to where he now stood.

He needed to get to help, but first he needed to check something out.

He slid his helmet on, and felt like it was going to suffocate him. He wasn't getting enough oxygen somehow. That was the trouble. He wasn't in a lot of pain from whatever toxin had been injected into his system, but his body was beginning to shut down for lack of air.

That explained the lightheadedness, the lack of balance, his inability to concentrate, all of it. The only thing it didn't tell him was what the poison used was, or who had used it.

He began with the assumption that the Black Wasp had an accomplice. But, if that was so, the accomplice wasn't exactly being well controlled. The Black Wasp wanted Batman alive, assuming the person who shot him with the dart was the same one who wrote the note. It could well be the other way around. Either way, if this was a party of two, one was not above killing, the other was. Unless they needed Batman alive but wanted Robin eliminated, but that didn't make a whole lot of sense.

In fact, none of it really did.

Unless the two shooters were not working together. The Black Wasp had warned Robin off, the other one had probably wanted him to collapse on the stand. That would have generated some real chaos.

By now, Robin was on the motorcycle, roaring towards the apartment building where Bolden lived.

Robin was doubtless the most difficult witness to get to, but he would also be the most dramatic. Anyone who knew the case knew that Robin and Melina knew each other. Seeing him fall as a victim might well have rattled her, and she might alter her testimony to protect herself. May was shaky enough that, if Melina dropped out, she was sure to go too.

But a collapse on the stand would also provide an opportunity to kill Bernard then and there, or possibly help him to make an escape.

Robin shook his head. It didn't add up. None of it seemed to add up.

Why would so many people want Bernard to go free? What could he possibly offer that would be worth the effort of systematically eliminating all witnesses and contaminating evidence?

Sure he had money, and lots of it, but was that really what this was about? Was Bernard the one behind it, offering a pile of money to whoever could pull off getting him out?

Robin tried to remember the courtroom scene. Bernard had looked surprised as anyone when Wilson suggested that Bolden didn't even exist. With Bolden lost in the system, it was an easy claim to make. If you couldn't find him, he couldn't very well confirm what Robin claimed. All his record would state was that he had been in the employ of a man named Carver at one time. Meaningless, Carver had employed a lot of people, most of whom were caught and arrested before the plane took off.

Robin briefly toyed with the idea that Carver might not be dead. But he'd seen the man shot in the head, point blank. No human walked away from a thing like that. And Carver had been most decidedly human.

What about Bolden? Could he be the shooter? Could it be that he escaped from jail somehow and was on a course of revenge? It seemed unlikely.

He had been a pudgy cargo pilot when Robin had known him. He'd been soft, without any sign of combat training or experience. He couldn't have changed that much in just six months. Besides which, he was too tall and heavy boned to be the Black Wasp, and Robin hadn't pegged him as a killer.

Wilson. Corin Wilson might be short enough. It had been dark, and the Black Wasp had been wearing a bulky hooded jacket. It was possible that Robin had underestimated their height and weight. But that meant he was pretty far off target. Possible, of course. Robin knew he wasn't infallible, nobody was. But it was a big mistake if he'd made it. Wilson seemed unlikely, unless he hired someone. But which someone would he have hired? The one who shot Batman or the one who shot Robin? Or maybe he hired both, just to make doubly sure? No, that made no sense.

It made no sense to warn Robin off, and then inject him with a poison which was meant to take him down while he was still on the stand. Unless the note was meant to provoke him into taking the stand in the first place. But why not just kill him and be done with it?

Robin knew he was getting nowhere. He felt like he was missing some vital piece of information somewhere, but he couldn't for the life of him figure what it was.

Pretty soon, it wouldn't matter. He was running out of time. He would be out of time if not for Batman's preoccupation with toxins and poisons, and generating an immunity to as many of them as possible. Robin was partially immune to whatever was coursing through his system, but that had only bought him time, and not much of that either.

Robin slowed and meant to park the bike next to the curb, but the front tire hopped onto the green. He didn't bother to correct it. The street was largely deserted, it was the middle of a work day.

Robin climbed off the motorcycle awkwardly, his limbs didn't want to cooperate. They were oxygen starved, just like the rest of him, and badly bruised from the earlier fall. He sort of fell into the alley, not quite landing on his face because he caught himself on the corner of one of the buildings.

He kept a hand on the wall as a guide while he stumbled down the alleyway, keeping his eyes on the ground. He needed what he was looking for. It was entirely possible that his life depended on finding it.

He reached the corner without seeing it, went past that, as far as he'd gone the night before. No sign. He swung around like a drunk, crashing into the opposite wall with his shoulder. He saw it then, glinting silver on the ground, a long, thin metal tube.

He fell upon it, landing on his knees, and picked it up to look at it.

The dart was longer and thinner than the other one, the tailpiece was a different color too. The one Batman had pulled out had a black tailpiece, and a collared needle. A collared needle had a barbed ring around it, which meant it didn't just fall out easily. This one was plain, and a portion of the intended dose was still inside it. That made Robin feel better.

Depending on how finely tuned the dosage was, it was possible that he might not have gotten a lethal dose of whatever it was. He sure felt like it was lethal, but he wasn't dead. Not yet anyway.

He started to turn around, but the world tilted crazily and he spun, hit his back on the concrete and lay staring up at the sky, gasping for breath like a fish caught on land. He looked through a mist of gray at the dart he held, and was reminded of an old Danny Kaye movie. Kaye was playing a carnival performer who found himself pretending to be court jester in order to overthrow an evil plot to kill the infant king.

At one point, there was a scene involving ornate goblets, where one was poisoned and the other was safe. Something about the vessel with the pestle, the chalice with the palace and the flagon with the dragon. Robin couldn't remember how it had turned out, or what the context was.

But he did remember one line clearly: _The pellet with the poison's in the flagon with the dragon; the vessel with the pestle has the brew that is true._

"_Well I guess I must have gotten the flagon with the dragon. I'm going to die in a back alley in broad daylight, thinking about a comedy from the fifties. What a way to go."_


	8. Chapter 8

**PART 2 – Sting of the Wasp**

The bright, warm morning sunlight was sullied and ruined by the unfortunate truth it brought on its beams of light. Robin was missing. He had not returned after court, nor had he appeared overnight, even on the news. Using the tracking device which was a component of the motorcycles as well as the batmobile, Alfred had located Robin's bike, parked haphazardly at the mouth of the dark alley across the street from where Batman himself had been shot.

Alfred had removed the motorcycle from its conspicuous location to prevent the police or other, less savory characters, from finding it. There had been no contact from Robin either before or since then.

Bruce was back at Wayne Manor, now able to speak and operate the television remote with considerable effort, but unable to stand or move about on his own.

"He should never have gone," Bruce had said in a surly tone that indicated he felt someone ought to have stopped Robin from proceeding.

"I am afraid that Master Dick ceased heeding my advice long ago, just as you did, sir," Alfred replied in a neutral tone.

"I listen to your advice," Bruce had protested.

"But, more often than not, you elect not to take it," Alfred said. There was no argument against that statement, because it was essentially true.

Summer Gleeson was on TV, standing outside the courthouse and enthusiastically reporting what the news knew of the case, seeming to take a sort of perverse glee in the fact that Bernard was on trial in spite of the fact that he belonged in Arkham; which was where he'd been before all this started.

Bruce knew what it was that she loved. She was a reporter, and this was an interesting news story. Bernard's fame and the unusual nature of this trial would almost guarantee viewers. Aside from which, Summer seemed to be one of the many people who did not believe in Bernard's reported cruelty or insanity. He could see it in her eyes as she gazed earnestly into the camera, hear it in her voice when she spoke. Summer had grown up hearing about what a great man William Bernard was, and she was loath to change that perception which had been instilled by reporters like herself and possibly even her parents as well, who had probably casually commented about the man's selfless charity work.

Bruce knew that people tended to take what their parents told them as gospel, as well as anything which implanted itself in their brains while they were still children. It wasn't that Summer was intentionally biased, but she was preconditioned to hold a certain opinion and hadn't thought seriously enough about it to consider the possibility that she might be wrong.

She didn't state her opinion for all to hear, but anyone with eyes to see and ears to hear could tell which side she was on. At least, that was Bruce's perception. But maybe he was more aware than some other people. In any case, it didn't matter. Summer's opinion was the one most commonly held, and Robin's stunt the day before had done nothing to improve matters.

"How could he have done something like that?" Bruce wondered aloud, "He knew it was stupid, he as much as said so. So why would he have taken the stand?"

"Master Dick was not in the best frame of mind," Alfred said.

"What do you mean?" Bruce asked sharply.

Alfred gazed at Bruce impassively, as he often did when the latter asked a question which he already knew the answer to but didn't want to admit.

"He was angry about the note," Bruce sighed wearily, "He never has taken well to threats."

"He has always followed the example you set for him," Alfred said, somehow making it sounded like a statement of fact rather than a cold accusation.

"I just hope nobody caught him," Bruce said worriedly, turning the television's sound on, "He made a perfect target of himself going there. Anybody could have picked him up."

"Master Dick is a resourceful young man," Alfred reminded him, "If he has met with adversity, we shall have to trust to his ability to take care of himself unaided."

"I wish I had your faith," Bruce muttered glumly.

"_Could this be the end of the William Bernard trial?" _Summer asked, gazing into the camera intensely.

Bruce blinked, realizing that he'd missed something. Something important had gone by while he'd been talking to Alfred. He had to know what it was. Somehow he knew, just _knew_, Summer wasn't only referring to Robin's disappearance following his lackluster testimony. Fortunately, this was the news, not a mystery novel, and Summer was delighted to reiterate her previous report.

"_With the disappearance of all three of the witnesses added to the discovery that virtually all of the evidence was inadmissible due to tampering or technicality, it looks like William Bernard, one of the world's greatest philanthropists, is about to be cleared of all charges. Stay tuned."_

Bruce snapped the TV off, wishing he could fling the remote in a rage, but he couldn't muster the strength yet and so satisfied himself with dropping it and growling irritably. Things were snowballing out of control, and Bruce was helpless to stop it.

"We're missing something, Alfred," Bruce said.

He had wanted to go down to the batcave to use the computer there, but he couldn't cross a room, let alone negotiate stairs, and it wasn't as though Alfred could carry him. So he was forced to content himself with the file he had, and with sending Alfred to look things up as he thought of them. It slowed things down considerably, especially as they had to be printed out if they seemed relevant, and then Bruce had to read them and try to make sense of them.

He had looked at the files of William Bernard, Corin Wilson, Rebecca May, Melina Guevara and even Aaron Mitchel. Finding nothing of value, he had expanded the search to include all of the potential witnesses who were either dead, missing or otherwise unaccounted for.

"There has to be a clue to the Black Wasp's identity somewhere in this mess. The Black Wasp has got to be one of these people. It's the only thing that makes sense."

Alfred didn't comment, but stood stoically silent. He knew Bruce was avoiding thinking about where Robin might be, and what might have happened to him. He was focusing on the theory that the Black Wasp, having failed to secure Robin's silence via threats, had now done it by removing him from the playing field entirely.

He was avoiding the very real possibility that any number of other people might have done it too. Everyone knew Robin had been there. Everyone including criminals such as those residing in Arkham. Any one of them could have discovered Robin was coming to the courthouse at that time, and could have escaped prison or asylum and then lain in wait. But the number of suspects given those perimeters was too staggering to contemplate, and Bruce could not confirm the location of any of them until he was able to move, and so he focused on the only lead he had.

He and Alfred knew nothing about Robin's having been poisoned. Even if they had, they would have no way of knowing that it had been a different liquid and different dart design. Alfred had searched the nearby alley for signs of Robin, and had found nothing.

The notion of an unknown third party was not completely beyond Bruce's thinking, but it seemed a remote possibility at this juncture. He didn't have enough evidence to support such a theory. It was, given what he knew, far more likely that Robin had been shot by the Black Wasp and then spirited away, or perhaps left in some back alley, though the latter seemed unlikely. The Black Wasp had thus far displayed little in the way of cruel or killer tendencies.

Certainly the venom of the tarantula hawk was more painful than seemed necessary, far more. But it was possible that the Black Wasp didn't know that, or that they had some weird special affinity for the bug, in the same way that Penguin obsessed over birds and Cat Woman idolized cats. But the fact was, the venom was not deadly, and had not been meant to kill.

It was not typical of villains to care much about Batman's health. And, if they were shooting at him, they were usually shooting at Robin too. But the Black Wasp hadn't done that.

Was it actually possible Melina could be the Black Wasp, and that her friendship with Robin prevented her from hurting him even with a dart not meant to cause death or permanent injury? It didn't add up. Something was wrong with that theory, but it was looking more and more like the Black Wasp had to be Melina, because it simply could not be anyone else.

"We're missing something."

"You said that already, sir," Alfred reminded him.

"That doesn't make it any less true," Bruce replied, scowling at the files which he could only hold in his hands with effort and intense focus, making them difficult to read.

The numbness which had spread through him was beginning to fade back, feeling was coming in sharp, painful bursts. But all that meant was that he was getting stronger. Stronger, and more alert as well. Though he had been able to think, his mind had been foggy, as though it too had been at least partially paralyzed. Now he was thinking more clearly. But it wouldn't mean anything if he couldn't figure this puzzle out and find out what happened to Robin.

"I am sick and tired of people kidnapping my ward," Bruce grumbled, casting the papers aside in anger.

Passively, Alfred knelt and began to pick up the scattered papers. Bruce looked at him and his shoulders slumped, apologetic. Alfred pretended to have neither noticed nor cared about Bruce's outburst. He knew the frustration, the fear Bruce was currently trying to deny.

It was a dangerous, violent life he had chosen, and Robin had chosen to share it with him at a level few people could have conceived. The both of them knew the cold reality of sudden, unexpected and senselessly violent death, knew firsthand that life was not fair, that luck did not always favor the bold, that the heart of a person made no impression upon fate, who dealt people in and out of the great game of life without favoring goodness or evil. They knew, were consciously and continuously aware of the fragility of existence, were aware of their own mortality, knew either of them could be killed in an instant, with no time to say goodbye. Death could visit any time, any place, but was a more frequent visitor in the night, on the streets where they did their shadowy work.

But knowing and accepting that you could be dead any moment, that the man next to you could die any instant, it did not preclude worrying and fearing for his life. It did not make the fight for survival, the resistance against the force of death any weaker.

Bruce considered his fear for his ward a kind of betrayal. He felt Robin would not be pleased to discover that he spent time worrying about the boy. That Robin would insist he knew the risks, accepted them and wanted no special concern paid to his well being.

And Robin did show flashes of temper when Batman tried to keep him out of especially dangerous situations. He did not appreciate being treated like a child or protected when it was his choice to be a guardian of the night as Batman was.

But the truth Alfred knew was that Robin would understand. Harsh realities would be unbearable if not for the love and care of friends and family. Batman and Robin were family, it was natural for them to fear for one another's safety, especially when one was beyond sight of the other.

So Bruce struggled in vain against the fear, trying to tell himself it wasn't real and he had no right to worry for the boy. Alfred knew there was nothing he could say to change Bruce's mind about it. But he also knew that Bruce would be unsuccessful at trying to deny the feelings coursing through him, especially in his currently helpless state where feelings were all he had.


	9. Chapter 9

The wail of sirens in the night was reminiscent of the primeval screams of the dinosaurs caught in tar pits, their violent and desperate struggles tinged with a deep despair, their cries full of the agonized knowledge that their attempts at escape were all in vain, and that they were doomed to slowly sink, suffocating in black ooze, choking, dying, luring others down with them...

Melina was glad to be rid of such noise, though the thrum of the plane's engine was another sound she found deeply and intensely distasteful. But it wouldn't matter for much longer. Soon it would all be left behind, just a bad memory fading away into the void of eternity.

She was leaving that place behind, and taking with her the one thing which she wanted above all else.

To her right, Robin lay unconscious and strapped to a gurney to keep him from sliding around. He looked so peaceful now, the poison in his veins was losing its grip on him. He was strong, but he was also blessed with good fortune, though he probably didn't feel that way now.

He had not gotten a full dose. A full dose would have killed him.

As it was, he had sweated, his body had been wracked by violent spasms, his lungs constricted as he fought for breath in a delirium. For hours he had fought for his life, but he never would have stood a chance if he'd gotten all of the poison in the vial carried by the dart.

Then it would have been over. Over so much quicker. And perhaps it would have been right. But Melina was glad it hadn't ended that way, that she would get the chance to show him.

She glanced over at him, lying almost as still as death, his skin pale as the sheets on which he lay, his breath coming shallowly and with a certain amount of effort, his hair matted with sweat. But his pulse was steady and growing stronger, it was as though he'd broken through a fevered illness.

He'd seemed so much larger than life to her, but now he was reduced to this. He seemed small, frail, the mortality of him as a human having been exposed. Helpless now, at the mercy of whomever chose to take advantage of him. He could not protect himself now, couldn't protect anyone.

More than once, Melina raised her hand and reached for his mask, each time stopping herself. It would do him no harm for her to know his identity, but she realized that to remove his mask would be a violation of his person, his self that would be unforgivably cruel.

She knew about such things from experience. She knew what it was to be violated, to be touched in ways you did not want to be touched, to be naked and helpless before someone more powerful than you. And surely removing the mask from a creature such as Robin would be little different from stripping him down to the skin, something she would not even contemplate.

No. Much as she was plagued by curiosity, she knew that she must keep her hands to herself.

The time would come when Robin learned not to fear her, but that time was not yet, and it was a choice he would have to make on his own. In time. Yes. In time.

"You did not touch me when you believed I slept, nor even gaze for too long upon my form. And, though I almost wish you had, I would think less of you now had such been the case. Because you showed respect to me when you thought me unaware, I now convey the same to you."

She knew he couldn't hear her, but it felt better to speak the words aloud. They solidified her commitment to keeping her hands to herself, in spite of temptation. To say aloud what she intended was to promise herself and Robin that she would behave.

And yet, she could not keep her eyes off of him as he had averted his gaze from her that night in the hotel room. But this was different she felt. She had saved his life. And besides, he was fully dressed, so modesty was not an issue. It was different. Or so she kept telling herself.

And yet, she could not entirely ignore a twinge of guilt that had plagued her this entire flight, which gradually built itself into a knot in her stomach. Each time it did, she would turn away and look out the window at the clouds and sky flying past without ceasing. But she would inevitably turn her head, looking again at the man who had saved her life, unable to keep him from her thoughts.

She felt that she was different from most people, for she did not consider Robin to be a boy. To her, he was a man, as great and mature as any, capable of anything, courageous and powerful of mind and body. If he was shorter than other men, she did not notice. He was still taller and heavier than she, though he did not look it now.

Perhaps the poison had revealed his mortality, but his triumph over it had countered that revelation. Melina wondered about the line between adoration and idolatry, wondered if perhaps she had crossed it at some point. But she didn't like to dwell on such thoughts.

Nobody likes to think they've crossed the line. Because once you've crossed over some lines, there's no going back. But most people, Melina included, like to believe that they will notice when they cross over, and that they can just go right back without being significantly changed and without anyone noticing that they were weaving across the road of life.

"You must have been so angry when you came to my hotel that night. Convinced that poor confused Melina was up to her old tricks again," Melina said, "But I've left Supay at home this time. This time it's different. You'll see. We'll get there, and you'll wake up, and I'll explain everything."

Melina heard the guilt creeping into her voice like a rising water line at high tide. She fell silent and looked out the window, determined not to let it get to her. Uncertainty was natural. Things were changing, and she was getting scared.

She'd never had control before, and never been more certain of what she wanted. It was only natural that she was terrified that it wouldn't work, that she wouldn't be able to maintain her grasp on the situation. Especially since some unexpected things had happened already.

But those things didn't mean anything. They were just flukes. It didn't change anything in the grand scheme. The scheme was hers, and she knew she had everything under control. Everything was going according to plan. At last, after a lifetime of sorrows and pains and tragedy, everything was finally going Melina Guevara's way. From here on out, everything would be good, everything would be right, everything would be perfect.

She told herself she believed that, that it was true. But still, in spite of what she could do to convince herself, she felt plagued by guilt and doubt, the thought that what she was about to do was very wrong. So wrong, in fact, that Robin would never forgive her.

She looked over at him again. He hadn't moved, of course, yet she felt that he must be quietly judging her, in spite of being deeply unconscious.

"I saved your life," she told him, of course he didn't respond to her, "I haven't done anything wrong."

But he wouldn't believe that. And neither did she. Not really.

To escape the hot flashes of guilt, Melina stood up suddenly and walked to the cockpit, where she would be unable to see Robin. It was his presence which had unsettled her, had shaken her belief in the rightness of her actions. She had been secure in the knowledge that she was doing nothing wrong until now. Even looking at him was forcing her to contemplate how he would react to what she was doing.

And she knew, in her heart, that he would not understand. He would not accept. In fact, she was fairly certain that he would actually come to hate her for what she was doing.

But she ruthlessly pushed those thoughts aside, trying to focus on the more pleasant fantasy that he would understand if she could just explain it to him. If she could just explain, then he would be sympathetic, as he'd always been before.

Except that wasn't true. He had not had sympathy for her when she unleashed Supay. He'd been angry with her, and clearly indicated that she was a fool, a selfish bitch. He was too chivalrous to say it in those words, but she knew he'd been thinking it.

And he'd been right then, just as he would be right in future when he told her what she was doing was wrong. But she couldn't help it, dammit. It's what she wanted. Didn't she deserve something she wanted after all the suffering she had endured in her short life? Didn't she deserve just a little bit of happiness?

Of course she did, and no one was going to deny her that. Not anymore. It was hers for the taking, it always had been, she'd just never realized it.

Robin would have to understand that. He _would_ understand that.

* * *

William Bernard sat alone in his cell, writing on a scrap of paper with a pen he'd lifted from one of the policemen who had escorted him to and from the courthouse.

He felt a sedate depression, the kind one got from taking a long drink while thinking melancholy thoughts, the sadness in itself a kind of strange pleasure to wallow in. He was not drunk, of course, but lately he had been able to acquire the misty feeling of it just by wanting to.

He supposed it was a product of age, or perhaps it was a result of having been dethroned. For that was what had truly happened. He had been a king, ruler of a tiny empire, a king whose subjects had feared his wrath more than death itself, causing them to do anything he asked of them. He had been a creature of power, the truest power which few are granted.

But he had known, even then, that his reign was coming to an end. He had plotted to be deposed, had fully intended to be destroyed. He had known he was not long for the world, that he risked losing everything if he outlived his time.

But he had been conquered. Not killed, conquered. The Boy Wonder, the little bird, had taken everything from him. Robin had led the kingdom to ruination, had taken control of its subjects, and had humiliated their King before them. Robin had reduced him to nothing.

Bernard had never been sure how this was accomplished. Some days he thought he knew, some days his mind was muddled and he could not recall events with clarity. But he did know that Robin stood in his stead, and that there were those who would do anything to destroy Bernard's successor.

Or some drivel like that. It was what Bernard was writing, and it sounded like a good explanation.

The truth, which he did not put in writing, did not speak of to anyone, was that Robin had bested him at his own game, and thus had earned his admiration. And his respect. Something no one before him had ever accomplished.

He didn't understand how, and it did make him angry to realize that he had never had a keen grasp of the situation, that somehow Robin had known how to turn things in his favor better than Bernard himself, the old master of manipulation. But he had to take his hat off, and admit Robin was his better.

There were those, he knew, who would seek the steal what scraps of Bernard's once vast empire remained. Those who would seek to curry favor now that Bernard was being released, and those who would seek to end his life in order to get revenge, or attempt to gain what they felt was their fair share.

And, with his steadily deteriorating mental processes, Bernard knew he was in no shape to once again take up the sword and duel in a political or business ring. He had lost his edge, and was ready to call it quits. His cleverness and scheming had deserted him, leaving him alone in the solitude of his memories. And many of them were nice memories, so it wasn't that bad.

Right before his arrest, the day before in fact, Bernard had called his attorney. He had never written a will before, but he did then. At the time, no one had questioned his sanity. He supposed the will might be contested now, but that wasn't important. What was important was that he had made his statement, it was legal, it was in writing, it bore his signature, and nobody could change it.

After tonight, none of the players left on the board would matter. And, to Bernard's way of thinking, it would prove him right once and for all. He had the final say in how the story ended. It would be his final victory. It would be proof that the control he had always struggled towards was at last within his grasp. It would trump even the victory of the Boy Wonder over him. It would be sweet revenge.


	10. Chapter 10

"_The William Bernard case has come to a tragic conclusion. Late last night, a guard discovered William Bernard dead in his cell. Authorities have not given an official statement, but the general consensus is that Bernard committed suicide._

_The obvious question is: why? Bernard was scheduled to be released early this morning, having won his freedom in court just recently. Police are concerned about the implications of this so-called suicide. For William Bernard, this is the end. Not so for the people he left behind, including nephew Corin Wilson, who acted as Bernard's attorney and biggest supporter throughout the trial."_

Bruce clicked off the television, scowling deeply.

He had not been thrilled when Bernard won his case, but he hadn't wanted the man to commit suicide either. It didn't make any sense. Who committed suicide right after being told they were going to be released? It just didn't track. Like so many other things about this case, it made no sense.

It was like trying to put a puzzle together, but all the pieces were upside down and half of them were missing. It was not only maddening, it was impossible.

"Two days," Bruce growled, "It's been two days, Alfred."

Alfred didn't respond, nor did he move to assist when Bruce struggled to his feet. Bruce had to use walls and furniture for balance and could only move slowly, but he was getting better all the time, and was faster now than before. Alfred guessed Batman would be haunting Gotham this evening.

That Robin was missing, that they couldn't help him, that there'd been no word from him or whoever had taken him, it was driving Bruce right up the wall, though he tried to hide it even from himself.

Bruce was clearly intending to go down to the batcave, testing his mobility and also finally getting access to his massive computer, upon which he often depended heavily for information. But then he stopped, glancing at the papers stacked in neat piles on the desk.

Bruce had been scattering them, sorting them, scattering them again, trying to make sense of them, to force some clue to the surface. He wanted the Black Wasp. A suspicion had begun to grow in his mind that, at the very least, the Black Wasp was not working alone. But nothing had pointed him towards the culprit, and the Black Wasp had not resurfaced. Neither had Melina Guevara or Rebecca May. They were gone, vanished as suddenly and mysteriously as Robin himself.

"Thirty-two," Bruce said speculatively, easing his way over to the desk, "Thirty-two."

"Thirty-two, sir?" Alfred asked.

"That's how old Wilson is," Bruce replied absently, rifling through the stacks until he found Corin Wilson's file, "Thirty-two, and nobody's ever heard of him."

"I don't follow, sir," Alfred admitted.

"William Bernard was seventy-three," Bruce said, as though that cleared up everything, "He would have been forty-three when Wilson was born. Forty-two, actually. His birthday is in March, Wilson was born on the last day of January."

"How old would his half-brother have been?" Alfred inquired.

"That's just it," Bruce said, finally locating the file and yanking it ruthlessly from where it had been sandwiched between witness files and evidence reports, "I have no idea."

Alfred blinked. Bruce was thorough, and he had an unsurpassed ability to retain information once learned. He knew off the top of his head the exact date of Corin Wilson's birth.

"Wilson's life has been documented thoroughly. This file details where he grew up, where he went to school, what colleges he went to. It even includes dental records. But on his father, we have a name."

"And that name is?" Alfred pressed, finally having caught on but letting Bruce play the scene out as though they were on stage with the whole world watching.

"Robert John," Bruce said, "Which is the name William Bernard used when he bought his Texas residence from himself. Corin Wilson may well have been an illegitimate child, but I'm guessing he isn't Bernard's nephew. I think Corin Wilson is William Bernard's son."

"Which explains why his records look authentic," Alfred commented.

"They probably are. William Bernard didn't want to admit he had a child out of wedlock, it would have ruined his saintly reputation. But he had enough sense of responsibility to finance his son's schooling and make sure he and his mother always had a place to live and food to eat."

Alfred made no comment. He had read the records. Wilson had attended the finest schools, but the neighborhoods he'd lived in growing up left something to be desired. Bernard had been willing to pay more for his education than his home. It was another example of Bernard's twisted priorities. His family lived in roach-infested apartments and ate stale bread, but at least Wilson got into the most prestigious schools.

"You think the son may have killed the father?" Alfred asked.

"I'm not sure. It's a possibility," Bruce said, "But I don't believe Wilson was the shooter. Maybe hired the shooter. But his file shows no self defense or weapon's training. Whoever our shooter is, they knew what they were doing. They hit a target across the street in the dark."

And they had to hit exactly where they were aiming. Neither Bruce nor Alfred pointed out that the cape would have protected Bruce from the dart if it had missed its mark even slightly. It was a miniscule target, and the shooter had only fired one shot.

Bruce looked at Wilson's picture in the file.

"They don't look related," Alfred pointed out.

"Dark hair, skin and eyes are dominant traits. If Wilson's mother had them, it's no surprise he inherited them," Bruce said, "Besides, if you think about it, Wilson probably wanted nothing to tie him to Bernard until now. His appearance is forced, practiced. He doesn't look like Bernard because he doesn't want to."

"And the difference in height?" Alfred asked.

"Bernard liked tall women. Or, to be more accurate, girls who would someday be tall women."

"But why would Wilson come forward now? And why pretend to be a nephew?"

"Politics," Bruce spoke the word like it was worse than an expletive, more like it was a kind of blasphemy, "The only thing Bernard had was his long-standing reputation. An illegitimate child, especially one born of a teenage mother, would do nothing to secure his freedom. But a child of his half-brother, that would work well in his favor. Surely a man who knew the complexities and embarrassment of a child out of wedlock wouldn't have kept a collection of mistresses in his house."

"Evidently he learned nothing from having had an illegitimate son," Alfred commented dryly.

"In his mind, it would have been a fluke. He simply hadn't had enough control of the situation. To his way of thinking, it was unlikely that it would happen again. And perhaps he enjoyed knowing his line would continue without him ever having to be bound by the responsibility of marriage. It was, after all, his opinion that children are a kind of immortality. And he wanted nothing so much as to be immortal. Or so he claimed."

"Then why commit suicide?" Alfred wanted to know.

"That," Bruce said with a heavy sigh, "is one of many questions I'd like to know the answers to."

* * *

"Another."

The bartender, a large man with big arms and black beard stubble, looked surprised. And why shouldn't he be? Corin Wilson, dressed in his fine and expensive suit, didn't look like a man who'd drink himself under the table. And he normally wasn't. But he was in a mood for a pity party and, since nobody was throwing it for him, he figured he might as well do it himself.

"You sure, buddy?" the bar tender asked in a gravelly voice.

Leaning heavily on the bar, Corin found it harder than usual to wiggle his eyes in the direction of the person who was speaking to him. He looked up at the bar tender out of blurry eyes. But his thoughts were still sharp, sharper than he wanted them to be.

"Look... my father just kicked the bucket," Corin slurred, irritated that he couldn't bring himself to say 'died', "My mother is also dead. I'm nearly broke, and my plan for altering that... absurd condition... has just gone up in a great big..." he gestured with his arms, knocking over his glass in the process, "Great big fireball. You know... you know what my father did?"

The bar tender didn't know, and didn't especially want to, but he listened anyway.

"He named a masked man, a vigilante, as his heir. Not me," he raised his voice briefly to make sure everyone in the bar heard, "Not his son!" then lowered his voice, "A fruitcake in a cape and tights."

"Batman?" the bar tender asked.

"No," Corin shook his head miserably, watching dimly as the bar tender righted his glass and poured something in it, "No... the little one. Bird Brain or some shit. Whatever. Nobody's got a name anymore. Just a bunch of animals. Bat, cat, penguin, robin, ivy... wait, no that's a plant," he must be more drunk than he felt, "Wasp. That's an animal."

"Wasp?" the bar tender inquired, "Never heard of that one."

"Sure you have," Corin mumbled, pausing to toss back whatever it was that had been poured into his glass, "That chick in the hoodie," no recognition, "The one that shot Batman?"

"Sorry, I think you may have read that in a comic," the bar tender said, "Nobody shoots Batman."

"Eh... whatever. Point is... I'm sure. I'm damned sure... I want to drink and be miserable."

"It's your head, pal," the bar tender said with a shrug.

The will hadn't been officially read yet, but Corin had his ways of getting things he wanted. He'd looked at it, and almost immediately driven himself to the nearest bar.

All his life, Corin had envied other people. Other people had houses or nice apartments, once that had consistent electricity and running water. Most even had air conditioning. Most kids brought lunches to school with them, and got a new pair of sneakers every year. Not Corin.

He'd worn the same pair of sneakers until he simply couldn't fit into them any more. He'd eaten lunch at school because that was one less meal that had to be paid for. There was never enough to eat. A lot of kids got candy and gum, but the closest Corin had gotten was looking through the window at desirable confections neither he nor his mother could afford.

Worse, his schooling had been paid for, but only if he went to the best schools. The classy schools, where the rich kids with their fancy clothes and high and mighty attitudes went. A few of them had required uniforms. Expensive to take care of.

His mother hadn't loved him. She'd kept him because that was how she got enough money to keep a roof over her head. Her weakness was not drugs, but alcohol, which she consumed in alarming quantities until it eventually killed her.

Corin had never been a drinker. Something about finding his mother dead in the kitchen when he was thirteen had turned him off ever touching the stuff. Until now. Now he had nothing to lose. Better just drink himself silly, then maybe later blow his brains out.

After all, there was no future for him. All the schooling in the world didn't make him into a high class gentleman. He had a real apartment now, clothes and food, and all the gum he could chew. But it wasn't much. And certainly not as much as he deserved.

His father owed him. Owed him. He had kept his silence, even into adulthood, protecting his father's precious reputation. He'd even altered his records to make himself into William Bernard's nephew. He'd tried to get the bastard out of prison, using every trick at his disposal.

But what did he get in return? Almost nothing. He was named in the will, but only for a small percentage, barely enough to live on. All that hard work, all for nothing. Just when he'd won, the bastard went and killed himself dead.

Something nudged at the back of his consciousness. Something to do with percentages. He didn't know what it was, but it wouldn't help him now. Not now that Bernard was dead. There would be no changing the will now. No getting in good with Bernard, no impressing his father. Nothing.

That's what his whole life amounted to.

Without money, he had been unable to make any friends as a child. He had no friends now because he didn't know how to cultivate relationships other than with money, and he didn't have enough of that. Even though he wore an expensive suit now, he still felt like he was dressed in rags.

Not enough money. Never enough.

And, even if he did have enough, he still would not be satisfied. All the years of torment and loneliness he'd suffered because his father refused to be responsible. And now, the final irresponsibility, killing himself to prevent Corin from finally having his victory. Putting an end to any hope Corin might have of getting his father's approval, or his money.

Granted, Corin would have killed the son of a bitch the moment he had the money, but the man deserved that. He wanted to have been the one to pull the trigger. But Bernard had taken even that. It was like he'd known from the start, planned this all along. But what was the point?

Corin picked up his glass, but a sudden thought struck him with so much force that he exhaled sharply and put it down with a clatter, the liquid slopping over the sides.

Of course.

Though the name of the game was inheritance now, Robin was still effectively a witness. End him, and the game was won once and for all. He only had to find the creep. And that wouldn't be too difficult. He already had a pretty clear idea of where to look.

He slapped some money on the counter.

"That ought to cover it," he said, getting up off the bar stool.

"Hey, you ain't gonna drive, are ya?"

"I'll call a cab," Corin tossed over his shoulder, though really he had no intention of doing so.

The bird was his. By tomorrow, the whole thing would be over. At last, Corin was going to come out on top. At last, he would get everything he deserved.


	11. Chapter 11

Consciousness. It felt more like drowning. From a peaceful and uninterrupted darkness, plunging into the cold and the light, shocked into painful breathlessness as reality sank in like an unwonted knife to the gut, twisting, forcing its way in, inescapable and unrelenting.

Robin opened his eyes and gasped, would have sat bolt upright if he'd had the strength, but instead got partway up and then fell back, the hands of gravity pulling him against the softness he was lying on.

Still gasping, choking on air like it was sea water, Robin stared upward at the unfamiliar ceiling, a confusing mass of unpainted wooden boards with support beams. It took him a moment to realize it was not a haphazard construction, merely an odd one, with mismatched woods.

Light came from an old-fashioned kerosene lamp with a brass base. It sat on a wooden nightstand beside the bed Robin lay on, which was itself a wood frame with an odd mattress. Robin wasn't sure what was odd about it, and decided not to think about it for now. A window behind the lamp and nightstand told him it was night outside, darkness crowded in eagerly, shadows kept at bay only because of the fiery lamp light.

The walls were wood, so was the floor, on which there was a brown rug which appeared hand-woven. Other than that, the tiny room was empty, a wood door seemed to be the only exit.

Robin closed his eyes, listened to the sounds around him. Someone was moving around in the other room. Small, light, agile. He knew almost at once the sound of those footsteps. Melina.

She seemed to be alone, and the outside sounds did not include the accustomed cars and planes and sirens and horns and other sounds of civilization. Just night birds, crickets enthusiastically singing their one-note song, a low soughing breeze rustled tree branches and bushes. No sounds of chain link fence rattling, nothing on the scale of buildings obstructing the wind. Wilderness beyond a cabin.

Robin took those signs as bad ones. He was in the middle of nowhere with the girl who must be the Black Wasp, had to be, for no other explanation made any sense.

But she wasn't the one who'd wanted him dead. Otherwise, why bring him here?

Robin knew time had passed, could feel it in his weakened body. But how much time? And what had happened in that time? Anything could have happened.

The door opened as though Melina had sensed Robin's return to the land of the living.

"Oh good, you're awake," she smiled, but there was something in her eyes, a kind of deception he didn't trust, "Do you feel well enough to eat something? I could make soup."

Robin took a moment to locate his voice, which was dry and scratchy.

"I thought you hated housework."

"Would you rather I said I could open up a can and heat it on the stove?" Melina asked.

Robin didn't answer. He simply stared at her, trying to figure out what she was hiding.

"What?" Melina asked, her eyes flashing impatiently though her voice stayed sweet as honey, "What's bothering you?"

"I was poisoned," Robin said slowly, trying to fight his way through brain fog, "I was dying."

"And I saved you," Melina told him, "A fact which you might be a little grateful for."

"I like being alive," Robin said, but was undaunted, "I was dying. You saved me."

"Yes. Fortunately, you had the dart on you with a sample of the poison. I made an antidote. You're welcome," her eyes were hard, her voice was starting to have an edge.

She didn't want to talk about this. She wanted to talk about soup. But Robin didn't really care what she wanted to talk about just now. There was something more important to discuss, if he could just get a handle on what it was.

"And you still want me to believe you're not the Black Wasp?"

"You're still on that?" She let out a laugh, but it was more a humorless bark which she swiftly cut off, shaking her head in frustration as she tried to compose herself.

"Any reason I shouldn't be?" Robin asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral, mildly annoyed that he could manage something barely better than a whisper on account of the dryness of his throat.

"You really think, you really believe, that I want William Bernard out of prison? I came to Gotham for one reason, to testify in that trial. That's the only thing that could make me visit that cesspool. Well... one of the only things," she gave him an odd look.

Robin tried not to take offense. That _cesspool_ happened to be his home. He happened to love Gotham, and believed it was worth trying to save. But he could understand where Melina was coming from, and why she might view it as nothing but a pile of filth erected in the guise of a great city.

Besides, Gotham's relative worth and description wasn't relevant at the moment.

"I want to see the bastard hang, or visit the electric chair or whatever, but I won't give him power over me," Melina said, crossing the room to the bed, kneeling down beside it so she was on his level, "Not again. If I killed him, it would be proof of his power, wouldn't it? We've been over this already. And you should know by now that I would never... ever hurt you," her voice and eyes became softer, soft in a way that made Robin feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"Black Wasp didn't hurt me," Robin reminded her, "she hurt Batman."

"Which hurt you," Melina said, reaching across him and placing a hand on the left side of his chest, "Here."

She was standing on his right, the side of the bed the door was on. She withdrew her hand only slowly, when Robin failed to respond to her touch in any way, staring at her as though he were made of stone.

"I left Gotham before I got to testify because of you. _For_ you," she corrected herself, "You were dying. I had to get you somewhere I could take care of you, somewhere you'd be safe."

Robin was beginning to get a sense of distance. Not only between himself and Melina, but also himself and his Gotham home. He felt adrift, sort of lost. It was beginning to become clear to him that Melina was a deeply troubled girl, more disturbed than he'd guessed. He'd thought she was getting better, recovering from her ordeal just as he had recovered, becoming what she was meant to be, just as Supay had shed the hateful monster Bernard had made him and become the jaguar he should be.

But that wasn't the case. He believed her when she insisted she was not the Black Wasp, though he wasn't sure why. Maybe instinct. But that didn't mean she was alright.

"Where are we?" Robin asked.

"Somewhere safe," Melina said, evading the question.

"We're not in Gotham."

"No."

"And this isn't the property Wayne purchased for Supay."

"How do you know?"

"The insects. The birds. The sounds aren't right. And this building is nowhere to be found on that property. You and I both know that."

"You're right."

"Then where are we?"

She was silent. Robin narrowed his eyes and gathered his breath.

"Where, Melina?" he growled, revealing carefully measured anger.

She averted her gaze and did not answer.

"_Where_?"

"I'll go get that soup," Melina rose and walked swiftly out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Robin did not call after her. There was no point in that. Instead, he tried clenching his fists, testing his strength. He wasn't up to standing yet. But strength was returning to him, and food would definitely hurry the process along. He was still sick, but recovering. His youth and fast metabolism made sure that he never stayed sick for very long.

But, for now, he was a prisoner of his own weakness. It was Melina's show right now, he was merely its subject. He had an uneasy feeling, like he knew what this was all about, but he wasn't sure and didn't want to believe it. Not Melina. Not sweet, naïve Melina. But she was not so naïve, was she? She had learned a great deal, experienced more in her short life than some people who lived to be ninety. She knew what she was doing.

_It's William Bernard all over again, _Robin thought, _I thought she was smarter than that._

He was in trouble, no denying that. But he still had another nagging thought. If Melina truly wasn't the Black Wasp... who was? And what of the other shooter? Did it really matter at this point? Robin wasn't sure, but he couldn't shake the questions from his mind.

He was close to knowing, to figuring everything out. So close to finding answers.

So close. And yet so far.

* * *

"Leaving in a hurry?"

The voice of Batman was jarring, shocking as cold water in the face. Wilson flinched and whirled, knocking his half-packed bag off his bed and onto the floor, spilling clothing and other personal items across the floor. Batman stood in front of the open balcony doors, a hulking, almost mythic figure in the darkness, his eyes seeming to glow behind the mask.

"I thought you'd come here sooner or later," Wilson said, smiling weakly and sitting on the edge of his bed, trying to hide the fact that he was shaking, "No, I didn't kill Mr. Bernard. That's what you wanted to know right? He was my client, I had nothing to gain from his death."

"Mr. Bernard? Not Uncle Will. Or perhaps... Father?"

Silence hung between them for a moment as Wilson absorbed the implication of that statement. Batman wasn't sure how he would respond, though he did not appear easily rattled.

"So you know," Wilson said, letting out a sigh, "That doesn't change anything. I didn't want my father dead. The man was an ass, but he was still my father."

"He was never a father to you. Just a paycheck in the mail," Batman said.

"And a cruel one at that," Wilson agreed, "But still, why would I want him dead? He never was a part of my life, why go to all this trouble to kill him? And why do it while he was still in prison?"

"I don't think you killed him," Batman said, drifting away from the window, into the shadows.

"No?"

Batman did not answer, letting Wilson stew over that for a bit before moving on with the conversation.

"I think he killed himself," Batman said, "The question I have is... what was he so afraid of on the outside? You're his son, which makes you the prime suspect. All the witnesses, the people who might hold a grudge, are missing. That makes you the _only_ suspect."

"I wasn't going to kill him," Wilson said, "There wasn't any money in that."

"You wanted his money," Batman realized.

Of course. Raised as he had been, what Wilson would want more than revenge was compensation. He wanted money, not vengeance, unless money was a kind of revenge in itself. It made sense, considering the background of expensive schools full of rich kids while he had lived on almost nothing. Want had been the ruling force of his life. He wanted more.

He had no motive for killing Bernard that was more compelling than his reason for wanting the man alive. Batman believed him when he said it. That didn't mean he wasn't the Black Wasp, only that he hadn't been what drove Bernard to suicide, assuming there was an actual reason anyone besides William Bernard could even begin to understand. The man had been, after all, insane.

"Yeah. Now I'm moving on," Wilson said, having gotten up so he could retrieve his suitcase from the floor and resume packing it, "There's nothing for me here in Gotham. Never was."

There was a problem with Wilson being the Black Wasp. He didn't seem like the kind to get his hands dirty, but he also didn't have enough money to hire someone professional like the Black Wasp seemed to be. Aside from which, nothing in his records suggested a knowledge of poisons. Besides, Robin had said the person was small, possibly a teenager or a woman. Wilson was too large, too heavy and too tall. He did look like his father though, in spite of the darker skin and eyes.

It was the look he had, that expression of smug superiority. Like he knew something that he could hold over the whole world. But it seemed to be a permanent look, not one that came from a specific knowledge so much as an attitude.

However, he was not the Black Wasp.

But that didn't mean he was innocent in all of this. Batman was suspecting, quite strongly actually, that there were at least two villains in this. The Black Wasp had not vanished Batman after shooting him, and had not meant to kill him either. That was far different from whoever had made all the witnesses disappear, including Robin. Some of those witnesses had turned up dead.

Batman felt cold fear building in his gut, no matter how hard he tried to pretend it wasn't there. It was the icy fear that Robin's body would eventually turn up. That his partner, his friend, his _son_, was dead.

"You look like you could use a new lead," Wilson said in a way only a lawyer could manage, "Here's a question, just for you."

He turned towards Batman and waited for a dramatic moment.

"Do you really think that I'm the only child of William Bernard?"

Batman drew up short. He knew at once who Wilson was referring to. It explained something which had bothered him right from the start, when he first learned of Rebecca May.

William Bernard had a thing for underage girls. Girls of less than eighteen years. Every one of the girls at his residence was under eighteen, most were sixteen. All except for Rebecca May, who was twenty-six. He'd thought she was there because she looked young, but that wasn't why at all.

It was because Rebecca May was William Bernard's daughter.


	12. Chapter 12

"You said you made an antidote," Robin commented.

Melina had returned with food for both of them. She sat on the edge of the bed. Robin kept a wary eye on her, but tried to pretend he was at ease. From his point of view, nothing had changed between them since the day they met. He cared about her welfare and happiness, but that was as far as it went. It didn't matter what she said or did, he'd still feel the same way about her.

But caring about her didn't mean he wanted to be intimate, or even that he trusted her. He was beginning to wonder if they could even be friends, something he'd been hoping for. But whatever side she landed on, whatever she made of herself, he would still care. It was like he'd told her. You can't make someone love you, or stop loving you. He wasn't prepared to use the word "love" in relation to how he felt about her because of all the connotations that came with it. He simply did not feel that way about her, and did not want to feel that way about her and was not going to feel that way about her.

"I did," Melina replied, "Maybe you'd have lived without it, maybe not."

"And yet you want me to believe you're not the Black Wasp? Where did you learn to make antivenom?" Robin asked.

"You think all I did was serve as a maid? I had plenty of time to myself. Most of us were uneducated, and we didn't trust each other. We all knew any one of us could be cast out at a moment's notice, according to his whim. All except one."

Maybe it was the tone she used. Maybe it was from being unconscious for a long time and waking suddenly. Maybe it was just that he'd been working the information over his head and finally figured it out. But suddenly... everything made sense.

"Rebecca May," he said quietly.

Rebecca May wasn't just some girl plucked off the street. Rebecca was Bernard's daughter.

"Yes," Melina nodded, "She was there before I was, and was older than any of the others. She was also never called on to perform any duties, either those of an employee... or a lover."

Robin winced at Melina's choice of term. What had happened to her was not love. Not in any sense of the word. To suggest otherwise showed that some part of her still clung to her old beliefs.

"She was also educated," Melina said, "She was fascinated by two subjects. Poisons and dancing. She especially loved snake venom and ballet. She was distant from us, cold. But sometimes, when we were alone, she would teach me a little of what she knew. Only in the subjects she loved, of course."

Which was why Melina did poorly in school. Her education was lacking, except in this one narrow area. And now Robin knew why he'd at first mistaken the Black Wasp for Melina. Rebecca had taught Melina to dance, to move. It was only natural for them to move in similar fashion.

"But the Black Wasp used tarantula hawk venom. Not snake venom," Robin said.

"Rebecca knew of the wasp which brought down the great William Bernard. What other venom would she use but the one which had defeated the giant she so feared?"

"She feared him?"

"Feared and hated," Melina said, "You'd have to be crazy not to be afraid of him."

Robin did not disagree with her. He had few fears that he indulged, but he had a healthy fear of violently insane individuals, of which William Bernard was one. He didn't let it become a debilitating panic, more a chill through him that advised caution rather than his typical breathless recklessness.

When you lived on the edge, sometimes fear was the only thing that kept you from leaping gleefully into a dark abyss from which there could be no return. Robin knew that only the deeply insane, people who believed they had attained a kind of godhood, felt no fear.

Contrary to popular opinion, bravery was not the absence of fear, but acting in the face of it. Even the Dark Knight himself was capable of fear. Just because he did not let it consume him and did not display it overtly for all to see didn't mean it didn't exist.

"Did she hate him enough to want him dead?" Robin asked, though he felt he already knew the answer.

"Let's put it this way: because of what he did for us, most of us idolized Bernard, worshiped him. In our eyes, he was not far short of being God. But to Rebecca, he was the incarnation of the Devil. She never said it, but you could see in her eyes. Anything and everything that was wrong in the world was because of him. He was Evil itself. I happen to agree with her."

Robin decided not to bring up the proof of that statement. And he knew that one thing which could make hate stronger was to dwell on it, to bathe in it, to think about it, internalize it, make it a part of yourself. A slow boiling loathing burned hotter than the flash fire of sudden fury.

If Melina had wanted Bernard dead after only having just realized what a monster he was, Rebecca May certainly did. But why hadn't she acted earlier?

As though guessing his thoughts, Melina told him something which made everything clear to him.

"Of all of us, she was the only one allowed off the grounds. Bernard knew she would come back to him. I knew why, of course. Whatever she thought of him, he was her source of food and shelter. But her freedom resulted in conflict between them. Sometimes they would fight. He would hit her. She would scream. At heart, I believe she was every bit as vicious as he was. But he was stronger. He had the position of power. But he couldn't control her heart."

"She had a boyfriend," Robin guessed.

"A lover, at least. She didn't talk about him much. Except once, right after you were brought into the house. She was weeping on her bed. And she talked to me. I didn't understand why she was so sad then. I only learned later that Bernard had shot and killed her lover."

"Melvin Carver."

Suddenly that act of apparently arbitrary violence made so much more sense.

"Carver worked for Bernard. And he wasn't about to abandon all that money to run away with Rebecca. Like Bernard, Carver believed he had everything under control, exactly as he wanted it. He could have a lover, but didn't have to take care of her because her father, his boss, was doing that."

"Bernard knew his name," Melina said, "Rebecca said he threatened to fire Carver. And she in turn threatened to leave, to go to the cops, to tell them everything she knew."

"And so, when the plane crashed," Robin theorized, "he had the perfect opportunity to kill Carver, and pretend Carver died in the crash. But then, instead of being slowly eaten by wild animals, Carver's body was discovered. Bernard had to know it would happen, he'd left the clue for Batman intentionally."

"He probably thought Batman would be so focused on finding you that he wouldn't have any interest in what happened to one of your kidnappers," Melina said.

"But that's not what happened. Rebecca found out her father killed the man she loved. She'd stayed her desire to kill her father for Carver. Now he was dead, and she had no reason not to kill him."

"Rebecca is cold," Melina said, "But she was never cruel to us, though she could have been. She could have acted any way she liked, but mostly she just avoided us, left us alone. I don't think she would kill anyone but her father. So she paralyzed Batman as a warning."

"Why not me also? Or instead?" Robin wondered aloud.

"She wouldn't dare hurt you," Melina told him.

Her dark eyes were gazing intently into his face, seeking something that wasn't there. Some feeling he didn't have. He knew what she was going to say before she said it.

"She knew I love you. She realized before I did, I think. She knew I went to talk to you when I wasn't supposed to. It must have reminded her of what she lost."

"Melina..." Robin shook his head, but she moved suddenly.

Graceful as a cat, she climbed on top of him, carefully keeping her weight on her hands, which she placed on either side of him. Her face was inches from his, he felt her breath on his cheek.

"If she had hurt you," Melina whispered, "I would have killed her."

She bent to kiss him, but he moved swiftly, catching her wrists and pushing her back, crossing her arms in front of her. He moved fast, held her firmly, but gently. He didn't want to hurt her, though he knew that the truth would do just that.

"Melina, you know I care about you," Robin said, "We're friends. But that's as far as it goes."

"Not for me," Melina replied, seeming to pout more than rage.

She tried to twist free of his grip, but he held her fast. She glared at him, but it was anger of the moment, nothing more. She did not accept his answer. Would not.

"You could love me," Melina said in a sulky, yet sultry voice.

"Not like that," Robin replied in a cool voice, refusing to respond to her.

Though he held her back, her body was moving like it had a will of its own, trying to press its way nearer, to override his will with its own. Her eyes locked with his, refusing to accept that he was speaking the truth. It was clear she believed he simply did not know his own heart.

"You should," Melina insisted softly, but fiercely, "I understand you."

"Obviously you don't," Robin retorted, trying to figure out how to push her off himself without just dumping her on the floor and possibly hurting her.

He was also uneasily aware of his own limited reserves of strength. He was stronger than her for the moment, but that wouldn't last long. He was still sick, his strength would come and go. Right now he was running on what amounted to emergency batteries. Powerful, but short-lived.

"You're a wild thing, like me. You need to be free, to be allowed to... just be. You can't thrive inside a cage. Stone walls, hard concrete, cold neon signs... neither of us belong to that world. We belong to the wild. You may not realize that yet, but I do. I'm right. You'll see."

"Get off me," Robin growled, feeling his arms beginning to shake as Melina leaned against them.

"Alright," she sat back suddenly, "You're not ready. You need time to adjust. I understand. I told you, I understand you," she climbed off the bed, much to Robin's relief.

He decided not to argue with her. She might become more forceful in her delusion if he argued with her. He'd won all he needed to, and that was a little personal space. He didn't need to try and convince her that time would not change his mind.

Though the events leading to it were different, the situation was not all that dissimilar from being held captive by Bernard. He was far from home, being held against his will. And all he wanted was to go home. Melina was right about one thing, or at least partially right.

Like a wild animal, Robin despised confinement. He resented being held prisoner. He wondered how Melina could understand so much, and yet fail to realize the most important truth. This course of action she had embarked upon, taking him to this strange place, trying to pin him down and force herself on him... she was repeating the actions of William Bernard. More than that, she thought of Robin as wild, like Supay, and yet she failed to recall that Supay had hated his captor. Supay had been driven by furious loathing to try and kill Bernard.

Melina was fortunate that Robin was not the wild animal she seemed to think he was. Otherwise, rather than just being angry and disappointed with her, he would have wanted to kill her.


	13. Chapter 13

Robin didn't realize he had more than one problem. He hadn't forgotten that someone had poisoned him, or that the Black Wasp was still to be dealt with. But both of those were still in Gotham, so far as he knew, a long way away. Neither were pressing issues at the moment.

Robin had a phenomenal ability to focus in on only one problem at a time. It was how he got through some nights, just taking things one at a time, almost forgetting that other things even existed. When you were on a trapeze, you didn't think about everything at once, only one move at a time, allowing everything to flow from one instant to the next, only aware of what you must do in the instant you existed in.

There was no reason to think about falling because, if you fell, there was nothing you could do. It didn't do to think about things over which you had no control. You had to focus on the here and now, not the past or the future or somewhere else. You had to be all in, or you'd miss the bar and fall to your death.

And so, Gotham and its various complex issues were virtually forgotten for the moment, rendered irrelevant by distance and time. He didn't even know what was happening. He knew nothing about anything that had happened since he walked out of the courthouse.

He didn't even know William Bernard was dead, and probably wouldn't have cared if he had.

Right now, Robin was singularly preoccupied with finding out where he was and trying to dissuade Melina from this course she had embarked upon. He knew he needed to be cautious. He knew infatuation could easily turn to infernal rage if the feelings were not reciprocated.

And the last thing he needed was for Melina to become a homicidal maniac in response to his giving her the cold shoulder. It had happened before. Not to him. But it _had_ happened. And he didn't especially want to test the wrath of a woman scorned.

And he really didn't want Melina to decide he'd done nothing but lie to her, that everything he'd ever told her was untrue simply because he didn't share her feelings. He hadn't lied to her. Not ever. More importantly, he seemed to have been the only person to ever tell her that she couldn't get her sense of self worth from other people, and the only one to suggest that intimidating people into doing what you wanted was not an acceptable means of human interaction.

If she took those as lies, there was no telling what she would make of herself. Robin didn't want her to self-destruct, and he didn't want to fight with her. But she was perilously close to becoming a classic Gotham villain. And he didn't want that. Not for her. Not for anyone.

Maybe he couldn't change the mind of the Joker, had no power of persuasion with Penguin or Mr. Freeze or Scarecrow or Poison Ivy or any of the rest, but Melina might still listen to him. He might be able to help her, to pull her back from the edge of insanity where she clearly now rested.

If he couldn't, then things were going to get very ugly. She clearly wanted him to be in love with her, and that just wasn't so. He couldn't fake that, wouldn't even if he could have.

And that meant he had to think of a way to convince her that bringing him here, and trying to keep him here, was wrong. Failing in that, he needed to escape. Easy enough in itself. He was alone in a room with a window big enough to crawl out of. But he needed to know where he was, and he also wasn't quite ready to give up on Melina. He also wanted to see the outdoors in the light, so he could tell what sort of terrain he was dealing with, and if there was any civilization he could head towards, any place where he might get access to a phone and, as before, lead Batman here.

He didn't need to be protected from Melina, but he might need a ride home, and he definitely wanted help getting her under control. Even if she couldn't be convinced of the wrongness of her actions, or that she would have to accept Robin's lack of romantic feelings toward her, she still would need to be taken somewhere she could get the kind of help she needed.

But first, he had to see what kind of shape he was in. Robin knew it was easy to feel fine when you were lying on your back. Getting up might be another matter entirely. He didn't want to start moving around unless Melina was occupied elsewhere.

So he waited until it was evident she was busy washing dishes. He could hear a sink running. No electricity, but plumbing. Interesting, if not especially helpful.

Robin was pleased to find that sitting up wasn't too difficult, nor was rolling off the bed onto his feet. He landed quietly on the floor. Melina had left him fully dressed except for cape and boots. His boots were on the floor, the cape was folded across them. He wondered briefly if Melina had removed his mask at some point when he was unconscious.

But there didn't seem much point in putting it back if she had removed it, unless she didn't want him to know she'd done it. He shook his head. Not a problem he could solve. Not worth thinking about.

Robin moved around the room slowly, watching for boards that might creak underfoot. He was relieved to find that his muscles responded as they should, he moved quietly and almost without effort. It probably would have looked silly to anyone watching, him silently easing around a lit and empty room like he was trying to hide from ghosts.

But Robin knew looks were deceiving. Movement could be spotted in the dark. You had to move like a shadow, like something unreal glimpsed out of the corner of your eye, silent, alternately quick and slow, like leaves tossed by the wind. It was the kind of thing you had to practice. You couldn't just do it. And normally, practice of such things looked absurd.

A good reason not to practice in front of your audience. If they saw you couldn't execute your maneuvers flawlessly each time, some of the magic was lost. If they just imagined you could do it by magic, or that you had worked so long and hard that you were now perfect, it would inspire awe or, in the case of Robin's nightlife and the criminal element, fear.

Robin went to the window and tried to look out, but it was too dark outside, and the flickering light of the lamp cast a solid, mirror-like reflection on the glass. He got the impression of a kind of vast emptiness. Somewhere lonely and possibly desolate. But the nocturnal animal life was active.

Insects sang and buzzed through the humid air beyond the window, birds let out mournful cries. The night breeze moaned against the windows and walls, rustling what sounded like plants. Thick plant life. Jungle maybe. It was certainly humid and warm enough. The air was positively sticky.

A chill ran down Robin's spine. Though there was no hint of it, and though he had no reason to think it, Robin was suddenly confronted with the very deep, very strong feeling that he was in danger. It seemed even more than instinct, almost like a premonition.

Robin took an involuntary step back from the window, gazing at it as though he expected some kind of horrible monster with slavering jaws and sharp claws to come plunging through the glass pane.

He held his breath for a long moment, but nothing happened. He shook his head, almost laughing at himself. It wasn't like him to be so paranoid. It wasn't like him to see ghouls where there were none. He had enough real dangers to worry about without making them up in his head.

The door creaked. Robin forced himself not to react. He hadn't heard Melina cross the outer room to the door, and was surprised by her sudden presence, but he refused to show it. One of the keys was not to never feel, to never be surprised or afraid or anything, but to prevent your audience or enemy from seeing it.

"I expected you to be asleep," Melina said softly, sounding almost displeased that he wasn't.

Robin could guess why. He was probably easier to watch, to stare at, while unconscious. That was an uncomfortable thought. How much time had she spent looking at him? How much had she told him that he couldn't remember because he hadn't been awake at the time? He felt violated in a way he couldn't quite describe or properly understand.

"You probably should be asleep," Melina said, crossing the room to stand very close behind him.

Robin did not respond to her presence in his personal space bubble, continued looking out the darkened window, pretending that what he couldn't see out there was of greater consequence than Melina. She touched his shoulder and he pulled away at once without turning.

"You're angry with me," she said, dropping her hand, "I knew you would be."

"Do you know why?" Robin growled quietly.

"You don't like being out of control. You don't like being forced into things. But I didn't have any choice," she reached for him again but he spun around to face her and then took several steps back and she lowered her hand, her expression a wounded one, "You would have died."

"You didn't have to take me here to save my life," Robin pointed out, "You brought me here because I couldn't protest. You wanted things your way, so you took me when I was helpless so you didn't have to deal with the reality you know but want to deny."

"I didn't-" she protested but he interrupted coldly.

"You wanted to pretend I felt something for you, that I wanted to be here with you. So you did. You didn't ask me about it because you didn't want to know, because you wanted to believe in your own fantasy."

"You don't get it-" he didn't let her finish.

"You thought if you could get me here alone, nurse me back to health, that you could convince me to live in this shack in the wilderness with you, pretending we were in the Garden of Eden together."

He could see in her eyes that he'd gotten it right, that she knew it, and that she was upset because he knew. She probably didn't even want to admit it to herself that she'd done something incredibly cruel and selfish in bringing him here. Worse, she'd acted exactly as William Bernard would have in her place. She had used his methods to get what she wanted.

"And if I didn't go along with it, well... that was just too bad, because I was already here!" He stopped because he'd heard a rage in his voice that he didn't like.

Too far. He'd let anger take hold of him and spoken as he shouldn't. He'd also accused her of worse than kidnapping. Even if he was right, she'd still be angry with him for pointing it out.

"Fine," she sighed, her dismayed expression turning furious as her voice became hard, "Yes. I did that. You're right. But there's nothing you can do about it. Except choose how you feel about it. You can either be angry, or you can just accept what you can't change!"

She whirled, ran through the door and slammed it behind her.

"You're wrong," he told the wooden door, "You can't make me stay. And you can't make me love you. You have to know that. Somewhere inside, you've _got_ to know."

He sat down heavily on the bed, suddenly exhausted. He put his head between his hands and closed his eyes. He was going to do something. He was going to put a stop to this. But without hurting Melina? Without sacrificing her to her own madness to facilitate his escape? How?

What was he going to do? What _could_ he do?


	14. Chapter 14

She screamed when she heard. Because she had hidden herself, hidden from the demon who would hunt her down, she heard it on the news, on television, that William Bernard was dead. Screaming, she had heaved a lamp at the television. It had exploded into a million tiny pieces, sparks flying, shattered glass plinking on the floor, the zap-zap-zap of the ruined electronic device filling the air.

She didn't feel better. Turning her wrath upon the sofa she'd been lounging on, she picked up the cushions, flung them. One struck the wine glass she'd put on the glass-top coffee table, knocking it over and causing the red contents to pour out onto the plush rug. Another hit an end table lamp, knocking it off. _Zzzt_, the lit bulb shattered, electrical current popped, little sparks of light dancing in the air and then died out when she ripped the plug from the wall.

One of the throw pillows on the sofa had lace, which she ripped. Ripped along the edges of the pillow, pulled the white lace free of its seaming, threw it aside, screaming, throwing. She gathered herself and heaved the heavy coffee table onto its side, crushing the wine glass and throwing the wine bottle itself onto the rug, where it proceeded to pour out. Snatched up the bottle, threw it at the painting on the wall, shattering the bottle and loosing the artwork, which was now stained with red like blood.

She screamed at the painting, at the rug, at the popcorn ceiling, but she had run out of things in arm's reach which she could break. Even in her rage, she had the presence of mind to unplug the broken lamps and television before anything caught fire or she electrocuted herself.

Rebecca May stood among the wreckage, wearing a sheer white robe, underwear, bra and high heeled shoes. Her blond hair was wild, her blue eyes were bloodshot. Her hands with their soft skin which every man she'd ever met wanted to touch were curled into fists, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her palms as the mascara ran down her face.

It wasn't fair! It wasn't right!

"I'm not Daddy's little girl!" she screamed.

She'd spent years -_years!_\- carefully, oh so carefully, planning. She'd spent all that time learning, carefully noting, plotting, pretending to just be a petulant child, the rebellious little girl her father expected her to be after her mother died and he was forced to take care of her directly.

He couldn't send money to any guardian, they might question who he was and what his motivations were and then find out the terrible truth. And so he had to take her as his own, a burden he had always resented. He did not love her. He loved that she was related to him, he adored the parts of her which were like him. He did not like that she was similar to her mother.

As she grew older, it became apparent that she was not destined to be just pretty. She was a damn beauty, a born heart breaker, a living dream, every man's secret fantasy. She was beautiful, and men wanted her. Their craving was almost a _need_, a tangible thing she could feel in the air around them. She could smell their longing, see it in their eyes, hear it in every audible breath they took.

That she was desirable pleased her father, because in his twisted way he saw that _he_ was desirable through her. That she could turn a man to jelly, putty in her hands, that kind of power was exactly what he had always longed for, what he had always had to get through money and threats and smooth talking. She had it just by walking into a room.

"Not Daddy's favorite!"

She was tall, but not too tall for men, and never ungainly. Her calves were perfectly sculpted to attract the eye, even before she had learned how to acquire that tone which was a magnificent balance between grace and sheer animal power. Her skin was flawlessly smooth, neither too light nor too dark, her intensely blue eyes were twin pools a man could drown in. She was voluptuous in body, but not so much that she looked fake or slutty. Every part of her was precise, like a carefully rendered piece of fine art, a living statue without a detail missing or ill conceived.

But her father was jealous, and also fearful. He loved that Rebecca could melt the heart of a stone giant, but he also feared her power. Feared he would lose control of her as soon as she found a man whose power was both physically and figuratively equal to her desires. And he hated that she was able to manipulate people so easily, so casually and without apparent effort. A smile from across a bar room would bring a man to his knees, begging for her phone number.

And then she had found the man whom she could not destroy with a look. The one man who could return her gaze with steady confidence, whose adoration of her was not marred by the stench of fear. She was as much his plaything as he was hers. He was not a handsome man, but she had wanted him, and had gotten him, had taken his heart, or as much heart as he possessed.

And then William Bernard, her father, had shot him. The one man who could be her equal, who was every bit the predator she was. He who would scratch and claw his way to the top one day. Except now he never would. Because now Melvin Carver was dead. And her father had killed him.

"I don't belong to him! He can't control me!"

Not because Carver had failed to fulfill his obligation, but because Rebecca had loved him. So long as men were just toys to her, to be played with roughly and eventually broken and then thrown away, her father was happy. So long as she didn't show signs that she would leave him for another man, he did not care what she did. But she was a possession to him, and he guarded the things he possessed with all the ferocity of a grizzly defending her cubs.

She'd wanted him dead. But she wanted to kill him, to see the look in his eyes when he finally realized that he had lost control of her. That he had, in essence, killed himself. He had created her, without him she would never have been born, and would not have later grown into the woman she had. He had created her and, in so doing, destroyed himself.

But he had taken that pleasure for himself. In a final act of insufferable egoism, he had taken the one thing in this world she still wanted. The one thing which could give her pleasure, make her feel something. Her anger had no direction now. Nothing she could aim it at.

She was not a serial killer. She couldn't just kill anyone to make herself feel better. In fact, she had sworn to herself that she would not kill anyone but William Bernard. No one but her father. It was her measure of control, her tie to sanity. She was sane, she knew she was.

She had only wanted her father dead. Him and no one else. But she couldn't accept it. He was dead, but not by her hand. She needed to rip, to tear, to watch the light fade from his eyes, eyes that would no longer see because death covered them in a shroud.

His end was not meant to be quick and painless. She had intended to knife him, not just once but as many times as it took to satisfy her. And then, her anger spent, she would puncture a lung, or maybe some other vital organ, watch as he slowly choked on his own blood, dying slow and painful, at last paying for what he'd done to her, at last understanding a measure of her pain.

But now that wouldn't happen.

Her anger needed a direction, something which she could destroy, or else it would consume her. She knew that. She had to find a surrogate, someone she could hate as much as her father... she knew just the person. She knew exactly who she wanted, and where they could be found.

"Never Daddy's favorite," she hissed, no longer screaming.

Her throat was raw, but the burning fire within her was cooling. She had a new target. A new direction. There was only one person in the world her father had cared for besides himself. Only one person whom he respected. One person he spoke highly of during his imprisonment. The one who defeated him, brought him to his knees, destroyed his empire. He hated, but also adored, that one person.

"Little bird," Rebecca hissed.

She went to the bedroom and opened her closet. She had to open her fists, revealing that her nails had dug into her palms so much that blood was drawn, in order to pick up the black bag there.

She heaved the bag onto her bed, unmindful of the blood droplets which hit the carpeted floor and the pale sheets. She unzipped the bag, pulled out her hooded jacket which she had customized to fit exactly as she wanted, and to have the red wasp emblazoned on the back.

She gazed at the wasp, that apparently insignificant thing. That tiny creature. Her father might believe it was Robin who ended his reign, but it was really the wasp.

"Not Daddy's little girl," she whispered, her voice growing softer, "Never Daddy's favorite."

She thought of the huge creature with its smooth lines, elegant blue-black body and grappling hook legs, rust red wings, a symbol of beauty and refined power. Power which nobody noticed until it struck them. Though common in Texas, Arizona, New Mexico and other states, the tarantula hawk often went unnoticed until it stung. It had a habit of flying low, and crawling in the grass in search of tarantula dens. Even so, it was almost unbelievable that the majority of the population wouldn't notice such an enormous creature. It was testament to the animal's nature that it rarely stung. Only the females stung, and only in self defense.

"Black Wasp."

She could not destroy her father, but she could destroy what was left of his control. She could destroy the thing he had loved more than all his expensive artwork and statues, and the mirrors he had hung everywhere so he could look at himself whenever he liked.

The thing he had left for the world, had given his empire to. She had not read his will, was barely even aware he had one, but she knew who would rule in his stead. He had killed himself because he'd lost his power. It had been taken from him, stolen. The one who stole it was going to pay. Because of him she'd been denied the final pleasure in this life. Because of him, revenge would never be hers.

She lifted out the sheath which contained the knife she had planned to kill her father with. She pulled the knife from the sheath and gazed at the gleaming silver blade in the light. It was a beautiful knife, slightly curved, long enough to be used in combat. Slash, tear, rip, destroy. She loved this knife.

It had been a gift from Melvin Carver. A gift from him to her. And with it, she would destroy the final remnants of William Bernard, whatever of him there was to be found. Starting with Robin.

"Little birdy's gonna die," she whispered to the knife blade, her voice soft and seductive enough to turn ice into boiling water, but the look in her eyes would have sent the bravest soul into quaking shivers of cold fright, "the Black Wasp will fly."

* * *

Corin Wilson almost couldn't believe his good fortune.

When Batman had come to his room, he'd almost believed the Dark Knight was really a supernatural being, possessed of unnatural knowledge and senses beyond those of man. He'd been sure that Batman had somehow divined that Corin intended to destroy his protege, and had come to put a stop to it.

But then Batman had left, and Corin was free to act as he pleased. Even Batman didn't know everything. Even Batman could be fooled. It had been something of a rush, truth be known, to see the Dark Knight leave, and to know that he unaware that he was dooming his offspring to death.

Corin had gotten himself a pilot who wouldn't ask many questions, charted the flight path, packed the last of his belongings into a suitcase and taken off. He was sitting in the seat which should have belonged to a co-pilot if there'd been one, staring at the sky.

He couldn't get the absurd grin off his face. He felt like he'd stared into the face of Death itself. And he had cheated it. He had resisted the urge to confess his intended sin, as well as the ones he was guilty of. What were the seven deadly sins? Greed, Lust, Wrath... and some other ones he didn't remember.

He knew that he was the incarnation of Greed. He wanted everything. Deep inside, he knew that he didn't just want everything his father had. He wanted everything. He wouldn't be satisfied until he had the whole world. He wanted, needed, to have everything he desired. And he desired everything.

He wondered if he might not be a sick man. But if he was, he had every right to be. Every right. His father had forced him to live a deprived childhood. That was why he wanted everything, because he was afraid. Afraid of having nothing, of being made fun of because he didn't have enough. Would never have enough. But he didn't want to let introspection go too far.

He didn't really want to know his motivations. He just wanted. He wanted what he wanted. He wanted to do what he liked, and to have what he liked. Wanted everything. Greed.

It gave him a sort of high to think he might not be just a greedy man, but the very demon Greed. Or were sins not demons? He didn't care. He was Greed, Greed beyond any that ordinary men experienced. He was anything but ordinary. He was Demon Greed.

The hell with Black Wasp and her petty vendetta. She was just wrathful. He was better than her, bigger than her. She was just a dirty bitch spawned by the same bastard which had produced him. Demons, both of them. But he was older, smarter.

She'd thought to take advantage of him. She'd thought to let him eliminate all the witnesses and insure their father's freedom, only to kill him outright. But Corin was ahead of her. She had been next on his list, except that she'd disappeared. He'd almost caught her when she'd been trailing Robin and that other bitch, but she'd fled. She hadn't known he was following, he knew that.

But she'd been the one to reveal herself. Black Wasp, indeed. Corin snorted. Stupid bitch didn't realize that she'd put herself on Batman's radar. She had another demon to hide from now. For who could Batman blame besides her for the little bird's death?

Not that the sonofabitch was dead yet. When he hadn't dropped dead in the courtroom, Corin had known something had gone awry. Robin must be partially immune, or maybe he hadn't gotten a full dose. In any case, that Melina chick would insure his survival. But Batman didn't know that. Besides, it wouldn't matter. Robin would be dead soon enough.

And Corin had just turned him onto Rebecca. Now she'd be out of the way. Some small percentage of the will was in her name. It was an insignificant amount, but Corin wanted it anyway. He wanted all of it, deserved all of it. Rebecca had lived in a house, been taken care of. She deserved nothing. She had not known the sorrow, the pain. She had not be forged in fire.

Even if Batman didn't kill her, he would pin her down. She would be imprisoned. And then Corin could get to her whenever he liked. But first, he had to deal with the big problem.

Robin.

And Corin knew just where to find the bird.


	15. Chapter 15

**Part 3 – Shadows of the Father**

Batman was still missing large chunks of the story, but he had come to suspect not only Rebecca May but also Corin Wilson. But when he returned to Wilson's apartment, the man was gone. That was enough to strengthen his suspicion, but it gave no hint of where Wilson had gone. Or where any of them had gone.

It was perhaps an unsound theory, since there was no definitive proof, but Batman was nearly certain Robin was nowhere in Gotham. And neither were May, Wilson or Melina Guevara, who Batman felt sure was involved somehow, even if she was not the Black Wasp.

The trail was growing cold. Except... suddenly it began to make more sense.

"There's more than one. Gordon said Robin looked sick. Meaning maybe he was poisoned. But a different poison," Batman was thinking aloud, while Alfred looked on quietly, "So different that it had to be a different shooter, with a different objective. Someone who didn't want to just get him out of the game, but wanted him dead. But something went wrong."

Batman was up and pacing around now, visualizing in his mind every detail he knew. All of the files he'd read and what he'd seen in person. Someone had been killing witnesses, or making them disappear to hide that they were dead. Robin was a witness. But he wasn't dead.

Batman refused to believe he was dead until he saw the body. But if Robin wasn't dead, then where was he? Obviously the would-be killer didn't have him. In fact, Batman was beginning to think Wilson was probably the killer, the Black Wasp (probably Rebecca May) had only wanted Bernard dead. Maybe she would have killed to get at him, but that seemed odd and unlikely. If she'd been a killer, why leave Batman alive? What possible reason could she have for doing that? No, she wasn't the one vanishing all the witnesses. That had to be Wilson, maybe trying to eliminate Bernard himself.

But why go to all that trouble when he could be killed in prison by someone clever enough to have gotten away with everything Wilson had? No, Wilson had wanted him alive. Inheritance. He wanted money. Black Wasp probably didn't. She was motivated by hate, by wrath.

Maybe that was a leap. But something told Batman it wasn't such a leap. Especially not after finding Rebecca May's apartment torn to pieces when he finally found where she'd been hiding out. That hadn't been done by someone who broke in. Rebecca May herself had done it, the evidence pointed to such.

"May wanted Bernard dead. Wilson wanted Bernard's money. Melina wanted..." He trailed off uncertainly, not so much because he didn't know as he didn't like the implication.

He liked to think he knew Melina better than that. He knew her through Bruce Wayne, who was ostensibly her boss, though she mostly acted independently. He really hadn't spent much time with her, and got most of his knowledge of her character from Robin, who might be slightly biased. Melina had, after all, freed him when he was caught by Bernard.

William Bernard. Who valued control, power. It was obvious why he'd killed himself. He'd set up the game, or believed he had, and now he had removed himself from the board so that nothing could be changed. But what could be changed? His will. Inheritance. Wilson wanted money, but he obviously hadn't gotten it, otherwise he wouldn't have been so upset when Batman came to visit. He also wouldn't have gone and drunk himself under the table after hearing Bernard died.

Something said Wilson wasn't sorry about his father's death, so much as what it meant to _him_. Money. Want. Wilson was motivated by his want, by his desire to escape from what his father had made him.

"They all wanted something. Any one of them could have done it," Batman said, "Any one of them could have taken Robin."

Alfred did not comment. Batman wasn't speaking aloud all his thoughts, merely fragments. Alfred didn't want to slow him down by asking for clarification. It was clear from the increasingly frantic nature of his pacing that he was onto something, that he had almost solved it.

"William Bernard only respected one person in the world besides himself," Batman said, stopping suddenly, and then changing directions, "He'd never have admitted it, but it was obvious. He believed Robin had bested him. He came here, to Gotham, not at random. He was here because this was where Robin was. He wanted Robin at that trial. Even in prison, he was still playing his sick games."

"To what end?" Alfred asked.

"He wasn't the one eliminating the witnesses. No, he wanted to have his trial in Gotham because he knew that this was the safest place for them. You remember that he wanted me to come to his city to protect it. That's what started this whole thing."

Alfred nodded. Of course he remembered.

"He wanted them alive. He wanted to be nailed to the wall. Whether he was released or not, he probably would have killed himself sooner or later. Bernard was losing his mind, and he knew it."

"Losing," Alfred repeated dryly.

"He wasn't sane, but that doesn't mean he couldn't still plan. He knew he was losing his sharp edge, possibly to senility. Knew it. Or maybe imagined it, but believed it in any case. And, for what it's worth, he was right."

"But what was the point? What was he trying to prevent?" Alfred asked.

"I'll bet anything that Bernard had his will changed shortly before his capture. He expected to be caught. No, more likely he expected to be killed by Supay. He anticipated. He knew it was going to happen. The whole thing."

Alfred raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He couldn't imagine what sort of person would have planned all that chaos which happened six months ago. It seemed rather elaborate. But by now he was accustomed to the insanity of Batman's adversaries. They had all sorts of insane ideas.

"I'll bet you anything that Bernard left all, or most, of his money to the one person who beat him."

"Melina Guevara?" Alfred guessed.

"No. He would have viewed her as a pawn. A pawn he lost control of. Lost control to Robin. He left his money to Robin."

"A masked vigilante?" Alfred was horrified less by the notion than the unspeakably hideous legal nightmare that such an act would generate.

"Yes. And I think Wilson knew it too. Somehow he found out, maybe even saw the will. Saw he wasn't in it, or was only going to get a little money. If he could eliminate the other heir, or at least the most significant one, he could get that money for himself."

"Only after months or years of legal cases," Alfred said, "Things get very complicated when heirs begin to die off."

"Maybe not," Batman replied, "As you pointed out, Robin is not your regular witness. Legally, he doesn't exist. Nobody wants to go through the hassle of getting money to him. But, more importantly, it would be stranger for him to die at home than be shot in the back. To murder him while he was out in the open would be almost like drugging him and making it look like a heart attack for any normal person."

Alfred made a small noise of disgust, then looked ashamed of himself. He preferred to mind his manners. Noises were meant to make words, but he couldn't think of any words which would convey his feelings on this particular subject.

"I agree," Batman said, "So maybe Wilson wanted him dead, but not before making sure that was necessary. He's smart enough to know killing Robin would have certain consequences. Maybe he wouldn't have to convince a court that Robin died of natural causes, but he would have to try and convince _me_ he wasn't involved."

"No easy task," Alfred commented.

"No. But he's not the only possibility," Batman said.

"No?"

"No. Not even my chief suspect. There's also Rebecca May."

"William Bernard's daughter?"

"Yes. And she lived with him, saw him up close and personal. And, I believe, hated him. If her wrecked apartment is any indication, he drove her quite literally mad."

"Why wouldn't she stay to testify then?" Alfred wanted to know, "Make sure her father stayed in prison?"

"She didn't want him in prison," Batman replied without skipping a beat, "She wanted him free. She wanted to kill him herself, and she didn't have access to him in prison. But that's not why she disappeared."

"No?"

"No. I think she saw Robin being taken. Or else did it herself, though I can't think why. No, I think it's more likely that she saw the kidnapper, and knew that the first suspect on my list would be the Black Wasp. And she's the Black Wasp."

"But you said it could have been her?"

"Maybe. If she saw him vulnerable, she may have taken advantage of that. In any case, she is a clear threat. The destruction in her apartment was a psychotic rage. She had a direction for it, a vent. Her father. Now that he's dead, all of that hate didn't just evaporate. No, she'd redirect it."

"And William Bernard showed more interest in Robin than in her or his son."

"Exactly. She wants Robin dead, even if she didn't before."

There was a moment of silence, which Alfred broke.

"There's someone else, isn't there?"

"Yes. Melina," Batman sighed reluctantly, sinking into a chair wearily, "It's very possible that she became infatuated with Robin, and that's why she set him free."

"Hero worship."

"Worse. A teenager's romantic notions. Seeing romantic advances in every innocent action, perceiving a relationship that doesn't exist, believing in it as much as any priest believes in his God. And who knows what sort of ideas she got with a background such as hers. Her only idea of love was created by a monster. There's no telling what she might think is ordinary and acceptable behavior."

"Including kidnapping."

"She might see it as a romantic getaway, because love excuses all wrong doing. In her mind, if she can just get him alone, make him understand her feelings, then they can live happily ever after. When she finds out that's not the case..." Batman shook his head, "She might be the most dangerous of them all."

"It seems our young friend is in more danger than we imagined."

"Yes, but I do have an idea of where to begin looking."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Batman swung to face the computer screen and tapped a few keys, "William Bernard owned three residences that we know of. But I doubt that we'll find Robin at any of those places. They're not isolated enough. It would be too easy for him to overpower his captor and escape. All three of them know how he got away from Bernard, more than once actually."

"So that's a dead end. Where does that leave us?" Alfred asked.

"Bernard also owned a small island," Batman said, "He didn't really enjoy the wilderness, but it probably made him feel more powerful knowing that he could have a jungle all to himself. And it is a jungle, near the equator. The island is almost fifteen square miles, with an inactive volcano at its center. According to the records, he had a road cut into the side of the volcano, and built a cabin near the top of it on the western side. There's no electricity, and all water had to be flown in. To that end, there is an airstrip cut into the jungle. Unlike the residences, no one has been there to search for any evidence of illegal activity. It's remote and outside the US anyway."

"The perfect place to hide someone," Alfred commented.

"If you could get a pilot to take you there."

"Do you intend to speak with all private air services?" Alfred asked.

"No. It wouldn't do any good. Because whoever went there first probably still has their pilot."

"Oh?"

"I don't believe Bolden is dead. I believe that he was kidnapped ahead of time. Which is why I believe it is most likely Melina who took Robin, and that Wilson and May are merely following. They know everything we do, and are probably far ahead of us on this. They might be on the island already."

"Then Robin is in grave danger," Alfred said.

"Yes he is," Batman replied, "Three people, all of them probably violently insane, either want him dead or will shortly."

"Well, I suppose you had better take a trip then," Alfred said, "Shall I pack you a lunch?"


	16. Chapter 16

A low whining rumble jarred Robin out of the half-sleep he'd inadvertently fallen into. At first, he thought it was a train. His brain, somewhat detached from reality, called to mind old memories of traveling by train, loading up the animals and equipment in the great rumbling beasts, hearing the whistle of the trains, wheels clacking on the rails, steady but not always smooth.

And then his mind brought him where it always did, each and every time he thought of his old life. That fateful night, when he watched in disbelieving horror as his parents fell to their deaths. Of all the mutants, monsters and lunatics he faced, that single memory was the one which haunted his nightmares. No convict, no asylum inmate, no carnival freak could be half so terrible as that one memory, that single moment which had redefined his life, changed him internally forever.

With the thud of bodies hitting the floor, he opened his eyes and realized that he was hearing not a train, but something else. A low vibration shook the walls and window pane, Robin could feel it in his body as he got up off the bed and went instinctively to the window. He couldn't see out, but by then he'd realized what he was hearing. The implications of the sound hit him like lightning.

Before he could think of a response, he heard the door behind him open. He whirled and saw Melina come running to stand beside him, her dark eyes wide, gazing out at the invisible world beyond the glass, having momentarily forgotten her feelings for Robin.

"Do you hear that?" she hissed, "Do you _hear_ it?"

She didn't appear to expect an answer. She knew Robin heard, and she knew as well as he did what the sound meant. Perhaps she knew even better than he did.

"I heard another just like it before you woke up," Melina whispered, as though she believed someone might be listening to them even now, "I heard it come and go, but thought I imagined it. Was just being paranoid. But this is real, really real."

Two of them. That was bad.

"The plane we came on is still here," Melina said, seeming to be changing the subject, "So is the pilot."

Robin looked at Melina sharply, "Come again?"

"I needed a pilot. One I could trust. The only one,"

"Bolden," Robin sighed, "How did you convince him this was a good idea?"

"I didn't. But I did save his life. He was being transferred to a new holding facility," Melina explained, "So I just broke him out. If I hadn't the person who's been eliminating all the witnesses would have done it. He knew it too. He'd already told his wife to get out of their apartment."

Robin shook his head. He'd thought Bolden would know better, had finally learned better. But apparently not. Given the option, Bolden had slipped right back into his old habits.

"I may also have convinced him that it was the only way to keep you from getting killed," Melina said.

"Because I'm so helpless."

"Well you were," Melina said.

Robin rolled his eyes. He didn't have time for this. _They_ didn't have time for this.

"How far are we from wherever that plane landed?" Robin asked, for the rumbling they'd heard was the sound of a plane coming into land.

"As the crow flies, not very. A couple of miles maybe. But it would take hours to get there."

"Why?" Robin asked.

But before Melina could reply, there was a crash, the sound of something heavy slamming into a solid wooden door with a flimsy latch. A secondary crash was accompanied by the sound of the door opening and striking against something solid with a gunshot-like bang which triggered Robin to drop into a crouch reflexively. He didn't even think, just acted.

He absorbed the sounds which followed the banging of the door as he moved for the only cover in the room. The door must have swung back towards whoever was coming through it, because it banged again, the volume of its impact was sufficient to tell Robin someone had pushed it back _hard_.

There was a slight, soft tapping, someone was moving stealthily, but not silently.

_Tap tap tap_.

Coming closer, only some of their footsteps audible through the door Melina had closed when she came through it. The slightest rustle of thick fabric against itself, jeans and possibly a coat.

As the sounds told of someone approaching, Robin caught Melina around the waist with one hand and covered her mouth with the other as he threw himself backward onto the bed and then rolled off onto the floor on the other side, hitting the hardwood with as much noise as a cat.

He let go of Melina as quickly as he dared, wanting to be sure her cry of surprise had been choked down and that she understood they needed to stay low on the floor behind the bed. He wished he'd had the forethought to blow out the lamp, but that would have taken precious seconds and also attracted extra attention to the room because the light could probably be seen under the door.

The light itself would give them away though. Nobody would leave a lamp burning if they weren't going to be in the room. It wasn't smart. It was a waste of resources and also a fire hazard.

The footsteps came to the door, pausing as though their owner was listening for sounds. Robin wondered how small this cabin was if they came at once to this door. Most cabins like this seemed to be from the inside were one, two or three rooms. This seemed like a small bedroom, certainly meant for one person, but maybe this was a one person cabin, meaning the living and eating area were in the next room and composed the rest of the cabin.

A loud thud spoke of someone heaving their shoulder against the door. Someone about Robin's size, maybe a little bigger or a little smaller. They struck with alarming force, struck again when the door didn't budge. The door rattled on its hinges at the second blow, the wood at the latch began to splinter.

And Robin knew he was in huge trouble. The person might be his size, but something about the ferocity with which they attacked the door was decidedly unsettling. It spoke of rage on an almost inhuman level, possibly even drug-induced.

Robin knew that there were drugs which virtually eliminated the normal restrictions on human strength. Burning through fuel and breaking all safety barriers, the right kinds of drugs could keep a body going even after being struck with fatal injuries such as chest wounds from bullets.

Melina was tense beside him, almost trembling from it, or perhaps from fear. Robin didn't know and didn't want to look away from the door, which he was watching from around the end of the bed.

The door broke inwards at the latch, all but flying open, crashing deafeningly against the wall and trying to rebound and close itself. But a hand lashed out, breaking its path and forcing it open.

Into the room stepped a figure clad all in black, black jeans and hooded jacket and black hiking boots and black gloves. From within the dark hood of the jacket, blue eyes blazed with insane fury. Strands of blond hair escaped the hood and hung like clinging spider webs.

Rebecca May lifted her face, the lamp light illuminating her lovely features which had been twisted grotesquely by whatever rage had claimed her. She had been consumed, but her eyes did not show signs of drugs as Robin expected. Just fury. Wild, inexpressibly deep, spiteful rage.

Melina trembled against Robin's side, and he knew now it was from fear. Robin didn't know Rebecca well, but she had shown none of this anger or hate when he had seen her before. She had seemed shy, almost hesitant to testify. But that had been an act, clearly.

Rebecca's hands were empty, fisted at her sides. No gun, not hyped up on drugs. Robin felt more confident now. They were on even ground. Well, not exactly even. Robin was still recovering from having been poisoned. But he felt that was the least of his problems.

Rebecca hissed through her teeth, not like someone merely frustrated, but like a feral thing expressing profound loathing of everything in its surroundings. Robin recognized the expression. It was the same one Supay had worn when chained and watching William Bernard eating a few feet away but out of reach just the same. Rebecca had come here to kill.

Robin knew there was no better time to engage her. She would search the room more thoroughly in a moment, and the element of surprise would be lost. Surprise and timing, Robin knew, were everything in showbiz. And, strange as it might seem, combat was very much like a trapeze act.

Robin didn't waste any time. He shifted and then leaped, pushing off from the bed in order to flip. Rebecca, the Black Wasp, saw him coming and raised her hands. He hit her left arm with a boot, and she caught him by the ankle with her right hand. Black Wasp wrenched Robin sideways but he kicked out with his free boot. She let go to evade the strike.

Robin hit the floor with his hands and rolled clear as Black Wasp struck out at the floor powerfully. Her heel smashed against the wood, leaving an unmistakable mark on it. She also cried out, her frustration and rage escaping from her throat, clawing its way out in a deep and hateful scream which did not fit the countenance it tore itself from.

Melina had not at first reacted, staying crouched by the bed, trembling fearfully. But the wordless vocal expression of furious hatred from Black Wasp snapped her into action like an electric cattle prod. Melina rose and hurled herself bodily at Black Wasp with a catlike shriek.

Black Wasp turned towards the new threat as Robin came to rest near the nightstand and lamp in front of the window. He attained a standing position by the time Melina had collided fiercely with Black Wasp. The force of impact drove both women sideways. They struck Robin, knocking him backward. Because Melina had struck high, Black Wasp was forced to lean back.

The nightstand wobbled and the lamp hit the floor with the sound of shattering glass. The fire could easily have been blown out, but instead it stayed alive. The kerosene leaking onto the hardwood floor provided fuel and gave it a foothold.

Robin pushed the grappling women away from himself and the window. He was concerned for their safety, he wanted them away from the fire, which was licking its way across the floor, expanding rapidly now that there was nothing to contain it.

But before he could move away himself, Black Wasp threw Melina -literally threw her like a rag doll- and her body struck against Robin. He was flung back. He was rolled onto his back on the nightstand. Melina landed on him, but momentum carried them still further. Robin rolled again, and Melina's body came to a stop near the window sill. She lay lengthwise, too long to crash through the window, but Robin broke through, hitting the pane with his feet and legs, tucking his arms around his head defensively as he fell out the window. And kept right on falling, even past the rock foundation of the cabin. Impossible as it seemed, he continued to tumble down into what seemed to be an endless black abyss. Falling infinitely through darkness, hurtling toward the unknown.

Twin screams followed him down; one cold fear, the other savage fury.


	17. Chapter 17

Understanding hit Robin with as much force as the impact of his body against the ground. Though he'd curled into a defensive ball and though the ground sloped downward, he still hit with a loud thud and felt the air knocked from his lungs like he'd been hit with a two-by-four.

But he knew what had happened. He had fallen out the window, into darkness, not because a gateway to Hell had been opened, but because the cabin was on the side of some kind of mountain.

He felt foolish for not having realized it earlier. The reason he couldn't see anything out of the window was because there was nothing in visual range, given the lack of light. Once outside, he saw that the pitch-darkness was something of an illusion. Beyond the light of the cabin, his eyes quickly adjusted to that which was provided by a silken and ghostly pale moon.

He fell, tumbled, rolled downhill, unable to stop himself or even slow down. Loose dirt and rocks fell with him in increasing amounts as he struck and flattened assorted plants and shrubs he didn't have time to identify. The air was still humid, and the leaves of the plants were damp from either dew or rain. He hadn't rolled far before he was soaked.

The end of his descent was abrupt, bone-jarring. He hit a tree sidelong with his back and, though his momentum carried him past it, he was slowed enough that he could claw for purchase in the loose soil, at last bringing his fall to a halt.

Robin lay belly to the ground, gasping and occasionally coughing when he inhaled dirt or torn bits of leaves. His vision wasn't just swimming, it appeared to be having a seizure. Everything was spinning and jigging around wildly. He was so dizzy that even his hearing was getting in on the act, taking in sounds coming from one direction and then spinning them around so it seemed like every sound was coming from every direction and all of them were happening at once.

Robin wanted to shut his eyes, but felt that would only make things that much worse.

Now he knew why Melina had said it would take hours for anyone to arrive. A plane had to land on a flat strip, meaning whoever wanted to get to the cabin would have to hike there. And it was a long way up, even for Robin who had only fallen about halfway down.

It had taken Black Wasp hours to get to the cabin. And she had probably rested after her arrival. No way she could have been that strong otherwise. She had to have been resting in the shadows outside the cabin, biding her time, knowing her quarry had nowhere to go and no awareness of her presence.

Robin felt a shudder run through him. So easily could she have come in while he was still unconscious. He'd have been dead before he knew it. He'd been utterly defenseless. Melina would have tried to protect him, but she was smaller and weaker than Black Wasp.

Black Wasp had nursed a savage hatred for most of her life, and what her instructors didn't teach her, she likely taught herself. She had shared dance with Melina, but not martial arts. Though the two often went hand-in-hand, they were not one and the same thing. Robin knew. He'd learned both arts, and often used one to the benefit of the other, but they were like day and night, working in tandem but one was not capable of replacing the other.

Even in their short encounter, Robin had learned that Black Wasp was a powerful adversary. She had learned well from whoever had taught her. And though she had seemed to be in the thrall of her rage, Robin could sense that was not the case. No, her rage answered to her. She was using it, just as she had used her knowledge of William Bernard or Melina to guide her here.

Another shudder rippled through Robin as he absorbed that the fury he'd seen was carefully controlled, managed by intellect, contained like a tiger in a cage. But there had been madness in those pure blue eyes. It wouldn't be difficult to push Black Wasp into new and dangerous realms of insanity and violence. Right now her rage must be focused on him for her to have come so far in search of him. But when he was gone... the rage would still burn. He could see that.

Rebecca May probably hadn't realized it, but her use of anger gave it power, increasing its strength a thousand fold. In allowing it to guide her, she was slowly relinquishing control to it, allowing it to slowly consume her. Soon she would be gone.

That would be bad for her, but it might give Robin an edge at their next encounter. He had no doubt about whether they would meet again. Even now, Black Wasp was probably trying to find a way down, coming after him with determination which was second to none.

If Black Wasp lost control of her rage, she would be blinded by it. She would act without thinking. Though that sounded more terrifying, it meant that she would lash out without direction or control. She would leave herself open to attack, and her own attacks would be uncoordinated. But only if she lost control of the anger she was letting flow through her like blood in her veins.

When his vision began to calm down, Robin was able to start making sense of what he was seeing and hearing. Halfway down the steep mountainside, in an odd copse of stunted trees, Robin's progress downhill had been clearly marked by the various flattened plants. Though there were few trees here, there was abundant undergrowth, large ferns, tree-like bushes, and other things less easily identified. Jungle growth. Bugs buzzed all around, the whisper of small animals in the leaf litter on the ground spoke of all kinds of creatures from mice to snakes. A peculiarly shaped protrusion from the tree trunk Robin had struck turned out to be a lizard, who opened a massive eye to peer disdainfully at him. It swiped a big sticky tongue across its slightly luminous, intensely bright orange eye.

Robin looked uphill, past the lizard, towards the cabin. Though it was quite distant, largely hidden by plant life, it was still visible for one very disconcerting reason. A bright glow issued from that direction, as brilliant orange as the eye of the much closer lizard, flashing and paling as it reached for the sky.

_Fire._

Robin had almost forgotten about the toppled lamp, but now he remembered it, and a new fear thrilled through him. What if the fire had spread and blocked the door? It surely must have leaped up to the window sill easily enough. It could have cut off the escape of the room's occupants.

Melina might be love crazy, and Black Wasp was violently insane, but Robin didn't want either one of them to die. He scrambled to his feet and started up the mountain, but slipped and slid almost at once back to his starting point. He couldn't get up the same way he'd gotten down. Too steep. And besides, it would take so long to get there, he'd only be looking for remains. He could not save them.

Robin closed his eyes, replaying the sounds from earlier in his head. He was trying to pinpoint where the plane had been. He figured, and rightly so, that a trail had to have been cut through the jungle from the airstrip to the cabin. If he wanted to get back up there, first he needed to get down to wherever the airstrip was. Aside from which, he wanted to find out who the other 'guest' was and, if at all possible, find out where he was and how he could get home.

Bolden would know. And he must be down there somewhere, because he certainly hadn't been in the cabin. Robin would have heard him, no doubt. He refused to think about the fact that, if Bolden had been in view of Black Wasp when she arrived, he might well be dead. And, if she hadn't killed him, the second person landing might. All he knew for sure was that second person sure wasn't Batman.

It was difficult to remember which direction the plane had come from and gone, especially because now Robin was faced in a different direction entirely. But he turned his head to the right anyway. The plane had landed in that direction. He was almost sure of it.

Melina had said that the airstrip was roughly two miles from the cabin, as the crow flew. That meant more miles on foot because the airstrip was far below the cabin, but also because the trail was likely a switchback. Probably two or three times as far on foot, including the up and down, back and forth nature of the average mountain trail.

Robin had covered half the distance brought on by the mountain's height, but he had a feeling he had gone in the wrong direction. If Robin thought of the mountain as a square (which it wasn't), then he was on the wrong side. The airstrip was to the right, but around the corner.

Robin took a breath, and then got to his feet. It was going to take awhile. Something told him that, by the time he got to the trail, the cabin was going to be the least of his worries. There were times Robin didn't like what his instincts told him. This was one of those times. He felt like he was going to walk into an ambush. Or possibly something worse.

* * *

Black Wasp screamed inarticulately and shoved Melina against the bed. Then she turned on her heel and dashed from the room, Melina hot on her heels. Black Wasp knew she could kill Melina and be done with it, but the girl held little interest for her at the moment. She had bigger concerns.

She knew Robin wasn't dead. The bird wouldn't die so easy. And besides, she had to believe he was alive, for he was her hold on sanity. She had to kill him, vent all of her rage, all her need for vengeance. Maybe some part of her knew that wasn't how it would work, but she didn't listen to that part of herself, assuming it existed at all.

She ran from the house, but not at her top speed. She knew she couldn't make it all the way down the trail at her best speed. It was too hot and humid, and the trail was too rough and damp, the footing was too uncertain. If she tried it, she'd break her wind, or else her ankle. Either way, it would do her no good.

Black Wasp did not expect Melina to keep pace with her, but the girl did. The hood of Black Wasp's jacket blew back as it had on the way up, and her blond hair streamed out behind her. The wind rushed in her ears. Her legs pumped smoothly beneath her and her breath came in deep, gratifying gasps. She knew she could outpace Melina, was sure of it.

She had no interest in the girl. She only wanted the bird dead.

The poor love sick creature stank of juvenile lust. Black Wasp was appalled by that, but had no need to eliminate her. So long as Melina did not prevent her from reaching her objective, Black Wasp bore her no ill will. At least, not yet. If she got in the way, then all the rage now directed at Robin would find itself a new target in Melina.

Melina kept pace through the first and second turns of the switchback, but soon began to fall behind. Fit as she was, she was being fueled by something much less than what Black Wasp had. The girl was running on fear, fear for the life of her lover. Disgusting.

Black Wasp had hate. She had fury. She had the need for revenge. She had WRATH, in capital letters on her side. That alone would have been enough to carry her all the way to the bottom of the mountain, no matter what the conditions.

She knew he would be there. She would not have to find him. He would be there at the bottom of the trail, just waiting for her. Like a moth to flame, he would be drawn there, she could feel it. He would be there, a lamb for the slaughter. She would take her vengeance, and feel all the pleasure of a predator with its fangs sunk deep in the throat of its prey.

And then, finally, she would be free.

That, she was sure of.


	18. Chapter 18

Jeremy Bolden had been sleeping in the back of the plane when he heard the engine of another plane. He woke up and peered out of the window, saw the other plane land, saw a black-clad figure disembark. He knew who it was, just as he knew why she was here.

Rebecca May stared at his plane for a long, thoughtful moment. And then she moved off the airstrip and the other plane took off. Bolden never saw the other pilot. He assumed the pilot must be coming back at an agreed time. But the way May stared at his plane made him uneasy.

He was afraid she would enter the plane, discover him, or that she could somehow see him even now from outside the tinted windows. But then she turned and jogged up the trail.

Miss Guevara had told him to stay in the plane, no matter what happened. She hadn't detailed May's arrival, but he assumed she expected it. He was wrong, but had no way of knowing that.

He settled and went back to sleep. He was awakened by the sound of yet another plane. It was dark now, the moon was high overhead and he couldn't see well. A tremor of fear ran through him when he saw the new arrival, because he knew this was the man who had intended to kill him.

Bolden had changed in prison. He had not only rearranged his priorities, he had also been working out. The tubby, grubby, sloppy, careless man he'd been was gone. He was leaner, stronger and more sure of himself. He had cleaned up his eating habits, and all of his hygiene habits really. He wanted to be a better person, and he realized that he couldn't just change one thing about himself. He had to completely redefine himself. And he'd been doing well.

Until he realized that Corin Wilson was methodically offing anyone who could testify at the upcoming William Bernard trial. Bolden had called his wife, told her to get out of the house, to go visit her sister, to do anything, but don't go home. And then he had resigned himself to his fate.

Everyone already thought he was a lunatic and a coward, so no one would believe him when he said someone was after him. He'd raved things like that once before anyway, thoroughly traumatized by having seen the brutal slaying of the badly wounded and wholly defenseless Melvin Carver.

But Miss Guevara had broken him out while he was in transit, and then convinced him that Wilson wanted Robin dead too, and that he needed their help. He'd been skeptical about the Boy Wonder needing anyone's help until Miss Guevara had come to his hiding place, bringing with her the unconscious and near-death Robin. That had convinced him.

But, strong as Bolden had become, he still feared Wilson. Perhaps more afraid than he'd been of May, who he knew only from having seen her picture on the news before coming out here.

He thought Wilson would leave too, eventually. Go up the trail as May had done. But, for some reason, he remained. His plane left, but he stayed on the airstrip, coming to stand uncomfortably close to Bolden's plane. Bolden hunkered down and waited fearfully.

He had a feeling in his gut that something was going to happen. Wilson was waiting for something. Whatever was coming, Bolden wanted no part in it.

He wanted to help Robin, who had been instrumental in his own transformation, but damn if he was going to get himself killed over it. Coward. He was a coward. Strong as he was now, much as he believed he'd changed for the better, he was still nothing but a coward.

Bolden sat on the floor of the plane, leaning so that he would not be visible above the windows, berating himself for his cowardice, wallowing in self pity and trembling with fear.

* * *

As he began to climb, crawl and otherwise force his way through the thick undergrowth, it came to Robin's attention that his right leg wouldn't support his weight like it ought to. It shouldn't have been a surprise, but it was. In all the chaos of the fight and falling, Robin had forgotten about his still healing leg. It bugged him that it was still not up to par six months after it was injured. Drove him nuts, actually. Not because he was having trouble handling the pain, really it didn't hurt that much any more. Most of the time. But because it meant he couldn't rely on his own body to act as it should. It frankly infuriated him that his leg trembled when he stood on it, especially now.

From movies and television, people often got the impression that uncut wilderness was just full of open, smoothly worn pathways, with just a few large rocks strewn about to make things interesting. Robin knew, and was now experiencing firsthand, that was not the case. The land wasn't smooth, and there were no clear trails when you were dumped into the middle of nowhere.

If you were lucky, you might stumble onto a narrow deer trail, if you were in an area where something as large as deer walked. Robin was getting the feeling that the animals here were all small. They made small animal noises in the brush on either side of him, some were maybe as big as a raccoon, but no larger. Robin had a developing theory about that, but wasn't thinking too hard on it because it really didn't matter at this particular juncture.

What did matter was that, while there were trails, they were small and uneven, made by rabbit-sized creatures. They wove this way and that and didn't do him a bit of good. Then something occurred to him. He had come downhill some distance, and was now surrounded by trees with great spreading branches.

Robin glanced up at them, measuring the distance, the thickness of the branches. It would be nice to climb around up there, but it wasn't really feasible. The branches narrowed down too far from one another, and the leaves were too thick. It would be harder to travel up there, not easier.

Robin was, of course, in good shape. And he had survived the wilderness before. His adventures with Batman were not always confined to Gotham, nor even to civilization. He knew quite a lot about wilderness survival. He didn't need that information at the moment, but the experiences themselves provided him with an amount of surefootedness that the average man lacked.

But that didn't mean the journey wasn't grueling. No matter how strong or agile you are, the jungle will test you. Getting through the vines and thick undergrowth was a taxing endeavor, and it was not long before Robin had to stop and rest. Not because he was exhausted, but because he wished to avoid that state for as long as possible.

After all, he didn't just have to get out of the jungle and onto a trail. He would still have Melina and Black Wasp to deal with. Instincts warned him that danger lurked ahead. Not in the form of a wild animal, but something else. Something, _someone_, was waiting for him.

Someone besides Black Wasp wanted to kill him. He knew that. Had already known that. But a deepest instinct, perhaps facilitated by the wild surroundings, warned him that the killer was no longer in Gotham. The killer had been on that plane, and was here now. The plane had gone, but the killer remained.

It was one thing to be kidnapped and taken to an exotic location, or to go on vacation and find a villain there (they were everywhere, after all), but it was quite another for not one, but two, people to come halfway across the world in search of you, wanting nothing more than to destroy you.

There was something deeply disturbing about that. Robin understood people wanting him dead. Gotham's criminal world wanted him dead. But they would not, as a rule, come seeking him. Heck, most of them wouldn't even go far to get their hands on Batman. If Batman and Robin got in their way, they'd be more than happy to try and kill them. And sometimes they'd try to do that before implementing whatever insane plot they had devised.

But somehow, this was different. This wasn't setting a trap. This wasn't meeting in a dark alley. This was actively seeking Robin out when he was in hiding, a long way away. This was hunting him down. Robin had never been hunted. Not like this. He didn't like it.

Except for the part of him that did. The part of him that loved risk, thrived when he lived on the edge, exhilarated at each close shave. That part of him which would have had him skydiving and bungee jumping if not for his nightlife. Robin was an adrenaline junkie, or so some people would say.

He knew better. The term didn't do justice to what it was about him that made him different from other people. It was passion. More than that, it was design. Every part of his past, every facet of his character, every bit of him had a clear, singular purpose. It was his choice to put on the mask. But he would have been miserable being anything other than what he was now.

Sometimes he wondered what might have happened to him if his parents had lived. Something told him that he would not have been content to stick with the circus. He'd loved that life, and might not even have realized anything was missing from it if no one had told him. But his heart would always have felt a little empty, like something was missing, only he wouldn't have ever known what.

Melina had not been entirely wrong in thinking of him as being a wild thing. But she did not understand what that meant. It meant that he was designed for a certain kind of life. That he craved it like his lungs craved air, couldn't live without it. He belonged in a certain world, and Melina had taken him from that world, essentially told him she didn't want him to have it and intended to stand in his way, preventing him from returning to where he belonged.

It was like keeping a cougar in an apartment. That's what bringing him out here was like. And not even a hand-reared cougar who had never actually killed but only had the instinct for the hunt. Robin had experienced what he was made for. He knew what it was he wanted.

He shook his head wonderingly and started hiking again. Strange how situations like this, crazy as they were, seemed to clear his thoughts more than any others.

He'd wondered, often, whether he might have to give up the nightlife. He liked a lot of other things, and had a real talent for most of them. He could become almost anything he wanted. Could go anywhere, do anything. But all he wanted was to go home. All he wanted was the life he'd made for himself.

He was ready, willing and able to fight for that. He had no intention of dying today.

* * *

Corin Wilson had generated a new identity for himself. He wasn't sure if he'd done it for fun, or if some kind of primitive need had caused him to put together an outfit for the Demon Greed which he felt himself to be. Either way, he'd come to understand why all the lunatics ran around in capes and masks. It was fun. It was also liberating, to be something other than what he seemed to be.

In a costume, he was no longer just a man, bound by society, rules and governmental restrictions. He did not feel self-conscious as he'd expected. He didn't care if people stared at him, not that there were any people around to stare. He felt powerful. He felt... _supreme_.

He hadn't had much time to design an outfit, and probably wouldn't have bothered if he had. Because he didn't intend to wear it in the presence of people who shouldn't know his identity, he wore no mask or concealing hood, but instead had purchased a fitted leather jacket which was colored a deep, dark green. He'd read somewhere that dark green was the color of greed. Or maybe he just imagined that. He'd gotten matching gloves, but could only find black pants, leather having started to go out of style in the 80s. To finish, he had dark red boots, because he had them in the closet. He'd won them in a poker game and never seen fit to get rid of them because, though they were tacky and the color of drying blood, they were also a symbol of victory to him. Now he had a use for them at last.

When he arrived on the island belonging to his late-father, his sense of smell was immediately assaulted by the distinct, sharp odor of smoke. Looking up at where the cabin was hidden from view by a screen of trees, he saw flickering light where he ought to have seen nothing in the dark. The cabin was on fire, and the fire had spread. Corin knew he was looking at a spreading wildfire.

And he knew that his prey would be coming to him. There was nowhere else to go.

All he had to do was _wait._


	19. Chapter 19

The Batwing glided smoothly through the night, its black edges turned to polished silver by the moon. It was a magnificent craft, the peak of modern engineering. But it hadn't been designed with distance flights in mind. Well, that wasn't entirely true. But it had been designed more for maneuverability and durability than endurance. It had been a long, and increasingly uncomfortable flight.

But now the craft cast its distinctive shadow upon the ground below as Batman looked out, getting a feel for the landscape, and for the situation. He had found records not only of the purchase of the island, but also the construction which had taken place on it. In those records he'd found maps and blueprints. He knew about the cabin, the airstrip, the trail and the small port on the North side of the island. There was a trail from there to the airstrip.

The port would take only relatively small boats, the area near the island was too shallow and rocky to allow for larger ships. You couldn't ferry a car to the island, so there was no reason to build an honest road. The island had been designed for rugged wilderness adventures, which seemed odd for a man who had probably never been outside for long enough to so much as catch a ghost of a tan in his life.

It was endlessly surprising that some of the people who were surest of their opinions about animals and the wilderness in general, people like William Bernard, had never once gone near it. At best, some of them went on local hiking trails, or went camping at designated spots in ideal weather conditions and believed that was the real thing. It wasn't. It was the farthest thing from it. Except for the people like Bernard, who likely got all of his opinions about how nature worked from books and the occasional documentary which he'd probably slept through the last half of. That was a new level of ignorance.

Bernard had taken it a step further. He'd bought and set up this island, and probably fancied himself a jungle explorer, though he'd probably never once set foot on the island. He may never even have seen it. He may have purchased it without once leaving his house for all Batman knew.

The chain of events which had led to the island's renovation didn't much interest him. That it was altered from its natural state was of a matter of keen interest, however. Because there were trails, it was likely that the people on the island would stick to them. Because there was a cabin, that was the logical place to begin looking. It made the majority of the jungle irrelevant, because nobody would be out there in it. It wouldn't make any sense. Even if Robin had escaped and was trying to hide, he wouldn't go too far away from the trail. In fact, he'd be heading for the airstrip.

Even with no idea where he was, the boy wouldn't go off without a plan. If he escaped, he might be in the underbrush, but he'd be close to the airstrip. Even if he didn't know the airstrip was there, Robin would follow the trail, looking for a way out of the situation. If he didn't realize this was an uninhabited island, he might be looking for a residence or town. He'd look for a car or a plane or something to give him a better idea where he was and how to get out. He would not go into deep hiding in the jungle.

Assuming, of course, that Robin was in any condition to be escaping.

If not, or if he hadn't found a sensible way out and didn't feel he was in mortal peril, Robin would be at the cabin. Batman wasn't sure who with, but he had his suspicions that it was Melina.

As the Batwing made its first pass, Batman noticed a bright spot in the darkness. It was on the side of the volcano. It took a second for Batman to process what he'd just seen, but by the time he'd swung around for a second pass he was reasonably certain of what it was. It was the cabin.

The cabin had gone up in flames, flames which were now expanding hungrily to the nearby foliage, putting up tons of smoke as the water was cooked from the green plant leaves.

The second pass also showed that there was more than a deserted plane sitting on the airstrip at the bottom of the volcano. There was also movement. A person down there, dressed in dark clothing. It was a long way down, but the movement didn't bring thoughts of Robin to mind. It was someone else. And they were waiting for something, not without some impatience.

The blaze at the cabin would be visible from there, and the smoke would probably be easier to see from that angle as well. Not to mention the wind, which was blowing smoke and flames alike downhill, towards the airstrip. The watcher was turned towards the fire, or maybe the trail itself.

Batman realized they were waiting for the fire to drive the former occupants of the cabin down to them. A quick glance around the trail revealed nothing, but yet another pass gave Batman time to spot two figures on the trail. Or, more accurately, movement. They were dressed in dark clothing, like the person below. The smaller one moved a bit like Robin, but the wind kicked up and revealed that person had long hair. It had to be Melina. The larger one was definitely not Robin.

Three people on the island, but none of them were the one he was looking for.

Was it possible Robin had been killed, trapped in the cabin and burned alive? Or perhaps Black Wasp had killed him and left him for the flames. Possible, but not something Batman was going to accept. Until he saw the body, Robin was alive. Which meant he was not in the cabin.

The Batwing swept back and forth across the island, approaching from a slightly different direction each time. But there was no sign of Robin. No fourth figure appeared on the trail. No flash of red indicated he was anywhere down there. But he had to be. He had to be somewhere.

He could be keeping to the shadows. In fact, his continued absence meant that he was free, acting under his own power, one or perhaps several steps ahead of the people who wanted him dead. He was doing what he'd been taught. He'd disappeared as an act of self preservation. Or so Batman told himself. He only wished he could also make himself believe it as fully as he told himself he should.

In any case, he'd learned all he was going to from the air. He knew which players were on the field, and where they were positioned. Melina and Black Wasp (Rebecca May) were on the trail, swiftly approaching the plane where Corin Wilson lay in wait.

Seeing Melina and May together was marginally unsettling. It might mean that Melina had gotten upset and turned on Robin, that all three of the people below now wanted the boy dead.

* * *

Robin wasn't all that far out of sight. He had at last located a trail, but he felt he'd overshot his mark somehow, missed the airstrip entirely. Puzzled and uncertain, he tried to decide which way to go. To his right, he distantly heard a sound not of the jungle. It was vaguely familiar, but he had to stand still and listen for many seconds before it finally dawned on him. Surf. Waves. The ocean. He was near the coast. The sound was distant, but the trail to the right undoubtedly led there eventually.

Robin turned left, but kept his distance from the trail. He didn't expect anyone to be on it this far from the cabin and plane, but instinct bade him stick to cover and remain unseen. He was not consciously staying out of view of any aircraft flying low overhead, but his subconscious worked feverishly to keep him beyond sight of any and all hunters. He could not afford to assume there were any friendlies looking for him.

Training and experience combined to protect him, telling him where to step and how fast he could travel without exhausting himself or making excessive noise. He wanted to be unseen and unheard by anyone who might be looking for him. He wanted to see and hear them before they knew he was anywhere around. He wasn't even thinking about Batman coming to find him right now.

It wasn't something he could count on, so while he had not dismissed it from mind entirely, he didn't devote any real thought to it. He was acting under the assumption that Batman had no idea where he was, or at least wasn't anywhere nearby. Some part of him suspected that, if Black Wasp could find him, then so could Batman, but that would have been a dangerous assumption to act on.

He was unaware of the Batwing flying overhead. It was virtually silent, and he often could not see the sky through the thick tree branches and green leaves. Besides, he needed to keep his eyes on the ground so that he didn't trip over tree roots, large rocks or tangles of vines.

It didn't take long to locate the airstrip and plane. But Robin did not break from cover. Partially because he knew better than to go out in the open, well aware as he was of at least one person who was hunting for him that wanted him dead. But also because he heard a sound which was not an animal sound.

If he hadn't already been listening for any sound not belonging to nature, he might have missed the slight sound of boots crunching on gravel. It was very slight, and not consistent. It wasn't the sound of someone walking, but someone shifting their weight, changing their stance, maybe moving slightly, but not going somewhere, not even pacing.

Though he was already out of sight, Robin ducked lower as he approached, sticking to the darkest shadows and wondering who it was up ahead. Not Black Wasp or Melina. Someone heavier, wearing man's boots. And they were alone. Robin was willing to bet Black Wasp and Melina would be together, assuming they hadn't actually killed each other by now.

Robin recalled the mad gleam in Black Wasp's eyes and shivered. She was capable of murder. The creepiest thing was that he'd never guessed, nor even suspected, Rebecca May. He'd met her before, seen her at the trial. Never had he pegged her for a madwoman. But she was undeniably crazy.

When he got close enough to see who it was in the clearing in the jungle where the airstrip had been laid down, he was moderately surprised to see Corin Wilson. He'd sort of known, but not been entirely sure. Wilson was the one who'd shot him in the alley.

More surprising, and disturbing, was the man's attire. It wasn't the sort of clothing a regular person wore, and bore no resemblance to the suit and tie the man had sported in the courtroom. It was unnervingly similar to the garb of The Riddler and Joker. A Gotham villain here in the jungle, hanging out, waiting for another shot at Robin.

By now Robin could smell the smoke, and could even see the distant, flickering amber light through the trees that foretold the arrival of the fire. It was spreading, a full blown forest fire now, and no fire department to control it or put it out. Robin knew by now, without anyone having told him, that there were no people in this place. He guessed it was an island owned by William Bernard, and that was why Melina, Black Wasp and Corin Wilson had all known about it.

The unwilling mistress, the unloving daughter and the unloved son. All here together, each of them dangerous in their own right. Robin felt like he'd been caught in the middle of a family feud which he had nothing to do with. He felt like he was just a pawn in a game he understood all too well.

Suddenly he spotted movement inside the plane. Just briefly, so briefly he almost believed he'd imagined it. But he hadn't. And he realized he was not the only pawn here. Worse, he was sure the plane's occupant had to be Jeremy Bolden, the pilot.

If Corin Wilson found out that Bolden was in the plane, the pilot was a dead man.

"_I can't let this happen," _Robin thought, _"Somehow, I've got to put an end to it."_

He just wasn't sure how. He was weaponless and outnumbered and also far from being in peak condition. His leg was throbbing and had very nearly given out on him more than once. His lungs were burning from the exertion of climbing around in the jungle and he was a little lightheaded in spite of the caution he'd taken in walking here. He had to face the facts: he was still weak.

But he had the element of surprise on his side. If he could take out Wilson, and then lie in wait for Black Wasp, who had to be coming down to get away from the fire, then all he'd have to deal with was Melina. And he wasn't in mortal danger from her. At least... not yet.

But before he could act, the Black Wasp appeared at the foot of the trail. She took one look at Wilson and, with a terrible screech, she lunged for him.


	20. Chapter 20

Corin recognized Rebecca at once and, while he was somewhat less than fully prepared for her assault, he met her without reservation or reluctance. He didn't know that she had found vent for her rage in him, blaming him for the fact that Bernard was dead and forever beyond her reach. But he did know that he hated her. She had been privileged. She was the child William Bernard cared for. She had known plenty, lived in splendor, while Corin and his mother had survived in hovels which barely qualified as shelters. While Corin was not ruled by his jealousy of her, he had no qualms about engaging in deadly combat with her.

She had leaped into him, her full weight slamming against his chest and shoulders. Her fingers gripped him like talons as he fell, having lost his balance when she hit with the force of a freight train. But he rolled with it, landing on his back, brought his legs up and pushed Rebecca right over his head, where she landed on her back with a thud.

They both rolled onto their hands and knees, and would quickly have gotten to their feet, had they not been at the perfect height and angle for spotting the flash of red in the underbrush nearby.

They both got up, keeping their eyes on the red, which was moving now, neither looking at the other. And then Rebecca pushed past Corin, launching herself into the jungle with an animal shriek. Corin hesitated, thinking. It didn't really matter who killed the bird, just so long as he was dead.

Screeching and yelping came from the darkness of the jungle, and the fern fronds thrashed violently. Corin tracked the progress of the fight visually, knowing that either Rebecca or Robin would break from cover sooner or later. The brush was too thick for them to move freely, hindering both escape and decisive victory.

Corin put a hand on the pistol he'd brought, hidden in the waistband of his pants, just under his jacket. He knew Rebecca had no gun. She had a knife. She was a determinedly themed creature. She would never shoot anyone, because that would break character. She had to "sting", either with needle or blade.

She'd never get the bird that way, Corin was sure of it. The bird was too fast, too agile. Rebecca was too consumed by her rage to use measures of self control. She was the one who'd let Robin know they'd seen him. She was the one grappling with him in the jungle now.

Rebecca suddenly cried out in pain and Robin bolted from between the fronds of a large fern. Either he'd forgotten about Corin or didn't realize he had a gun. In any case, it was a fatal mistake.

Corin whipped out the pistol, took aim- and something slammed into the small of his back with enough force to knock him to his knees. The gun loosed its bullet with an explosion of sound, but the slug pinged harmlessly into the gravel easily six feet from where Robin was.

Corin felt his head being yanked back, strong fingers wound into his hair. He looked up into the snarling face of this latest adversary, saw the dark lightning flash eyes and cascading hair, black in the night. Melina. Of course. He'd forgotten about her in the heat of battle.

"Touch him and I kill you," Melina growled, her musical voice fierce.

Corin smiled. Melina believed she was in control. But she had merely taken him by surprise. Now he heaved backward, slamming the back of his head into her soft belly. She fell back with a cry and he spun to face her, at once on his feet.

"Die, bitch!" He shouted, bringing the pistol to bear.

Melina dropped to the ground and rolled as he fired, two bullets buried themselves in gravel, spitting up bits of moon-silvered grit into the air. And then Melina seemed to have disappeared, sliding into the shadows like a serpent and, he knew, she was every bit as calculating.

He'd felt it in the moment she'd hit him. She was an amateur, but also a force to be reckoned with.

Irritated by all the interruptions, Corin whirled towards where Robin had been moments before. The bird was gone too, seemingly vanished without a trace.

Corin let loose a cry of rage, unaware that he was starting to sound an awful lot like his sister.

He was forgetting his plan and purpose. Desire was overriding everything. He wanted the bird dead. He wanted the bitch dead. He wanted his sister dead. Perhaps her most of all.

* * *

Black Wasp was infuriated by the sight of her brother. It was his fault she'd had to come all the way out here. And suddenly her fury had snapped the leash by which she'd held it. She'd wanted to tear him apart. The only thing that had kept her from doing so was the sight of Robin watching from the jungle.

She'd gone after him and he'd fled, aware that it wasn't just her he was up against. And, when she slammed into him bodily earlier, it had been apparent he wasn't really up for a fight. She didn't care if he was weak, sick or dying. She just wanted him to not be breathing anymore.

She'd caught up to him, but the thick undergrowth had hindered her movement, and next thing she knew they'd tackled each other to the ground. Robin was trying to slip away from her, but she'd caught him by the ankle. With his free foot, he kicked her.

He kicked at her hands around his leg, missed, and then kicked her in the face. It was evident to her that he'd been trying to knock her unconscious. But he couldn't see what he was doing in the dark, and the thick plant growth had caused him to misjudge his target, and how much force it would take.

But she screamed and was momentarily stunned. He'd struck her from above her head, but she felt that the future bruising would form along the right side of her face from temple to jawbone. By the time she recovered her senses, he'd bolted into the open.

"Fool," she whispered to herself, knowing there was no escape if he didn't hide.

She was confident that she could kill him, if only she could get her hands on him long enough to pull out her knife and drive it into him. Maybe his neck, maybe his side, she didn't care.

And then she saw Corin with his gun. Horror coursed through her as she realized he was going to take her prize. She scrambled to her feet, knowing it would be too late. But Melina had already taken hold of the situation, so Black Wasp took off after Robin.

She leaped on him from behind and they rolled into the shadow of the large plane in silence. Black Wasp restrained herself, holding in the animal screams which threatened to tear loose. She didn't want Corin to come after them, nor Melina. She wanted this kill to herself.

They rolled, grappling with each other, each trying to find a grip that would give them the upper hand. And then Robin twisted, giving himself enough room to bring up his knee, clipping her in the chin and then lunging clear of her with a gasp of effort.

She screamed, slapping the ground with the flat of her hand, hating him more than ever as he continued to elude her, wanting him dead more and more with every breath, every heartbeat. Every second he continued to live was an insult, an insufferable indignity. She wanted him _dead_.

"Come and face me!" She screamed, but Robin had disappeared from view.

She got to her feet, saw that Corin and Melina had separated. She was sure both were still alive, though she only saw Corin. She decided not to remain where she was. She didn't want to deal with Corin right this second. Maybe later. Besides, he still had the gun. She could see it in the moonlight.

Easily as a wild cat, Black Wasp faded into the shadowy jungle at the edge of the clearing, wanting to get a better view, needing to reassess the situation before trying anything further.

* * *

The shadows were getting too crowded for Robin's taste. Perhaps it was because he'd been spotted once before, or because he was tired of fighting with the wild vines, but Robin didn't want to move back into the jungle. He knew Melina was somewhere in the shadow of the plane.

He didn't especially want to find her any more than the others, though he was unsure why. She professed to love him and should therefore be the least threatening. But he didn't want to be near her now. Actually, all he really wanted was to be left alone, to be allowed to go home.

Instead, when he broke free of Black Wasp, he flipped up onto the right wing of the plane, then hopped on top of it, where he dropped to lie flat on his belly, out of sight of those below for the moment.

When they were in the jungle, Black Wasp had struck him with something, he wasn't sure what. Now, examining his side without looking, he felt that the fabric of his costume was torn. His hand came away bloodied. She'd cut him somehow. Nails or knife, he wasn't sure, but it stung like anything.

It wasn't bad though. He could keep going. But he was less able than ever to cope with this. He wasn't in good enough shape to win this confrontation unless he was profoundly lucky. It just wasn't possible.

Not that he wouldn't try. Luck had been on his side many times. Maybe this was one of those times.

He heard a soft thrumming and tilted his head, glancing up. He recognized the craft which was coming in for a landing at once. The Batwing. Luck had arrived.

But before that could sink in, a loud bang sent a cold vibration through the airplane, a bullet wedged itself into the craft's metal skin. Partially because it shook the craft and partially because he was jolted from the shock of it, the fired shot knocked Robin from his perch and he rolled from the plane.

He hit the wing on his back and slid down to the ground, landing on his feet, but not for long.

With a yowl which seemed more animal than human, Black Wasp leaped from the shadows and plunged into him, knocking him down. To her left, Melina swept in and tackled her, the two women rolled away, hissing and spitting like angry cats.

Robin got to his feet and a bullet tore into the ground near him. As he reacted to that, he was struck again by Black Wasp, who had thrown Melina aside like so much luggage. She drove him to the ground, fueled by pure animal rage. Robin thrashed beneath her, his mind flashing back to the moment six months ago when Supay had pinned him to the ground, when he'd been so sure he was going to die.

Melina screamed and ran towards them, her boots biting into the gravel noisily. A shot rang out, and she hit the ground with a thud, a bullet lodged within her, courtesy of Corin Wilson's pistol, which he had reloaded by now.

Sensing impending doom, Black Wasp leaped off Robin, out of the new line of fire. Wilson fired, missing the first time. Robin rolled, frantic to get out of the gun's range. A bullet tore through his cape, he heard it winging through the air, barely missing him.

Wilson screamed. Black Wasp screamed, seeming to be answering him.

And Robin realized it was all going to be over in a matter of seconds. It didn't matter if Batman _had_ arrived, there wouldn't be any time for him to do anything. One way or the other, by one hand or the other, by knife or by bullet, Robin knew he was going to die.

"_So come and get me then,"_ he thought, _"But you still lose. You've lost your minds. Lost your sanity. Lost your souls. Lost yourselves. And, before the night is out, you also might lose what's left of your lives. I can't save you. And neither can Batman. Because you don't want to be saved. So go ahead. Get it over with. Kill me. But it won't save you. Nothing can save you now."_

It was then that the plane's engine started.

The sudden, deafening roar of the plane's twin engines was unexpected and alarming. None of those on the ground had anticipated this, and they did not immediately recognize the noise for what it was.

Wilson and Black Wasp hit the dirt, buffeted by wind and debris kicked up by the propellers of the plane. Robin, though startled as any of them, had a different reaction.

Wilson had moved around the tail of the plane and was now on the same side as Robin and Black Wasp. But he had dropped face down, and Robin took the opportunity to pounce on him. Robin wasn't sure if he knew the loud noise was harmless or if he simply couldn't process yet another threat to his life. In any case, he ignored the sound like it wasn't even there.

He crossed the gap between himself and Wilson in just a second or two, and dropped onto one knee, which he planted firmly in Wilson's back, snatching up the pistol as he did so. When Wilson struggled beneath him, Robin carefully struck him in the head with the pistol.

He knew if he struck too hard or in the wrong place, he could easily kill Wilson or at least badly damage him. He didn't want that, he just wanted the man stunned or unconscious. But he was too gentle and, though he bled from a head wound, Wilson managed to roll and knock Robin off himself and they wrestled with the gun, which Robin finally got hold of and tossed into the jungle which greedily sucked up the treasure and vanished it (hopefully forever) under a pile of dead leaves.

Wilson elbowed Robin in the solar plexus. With a gasp of pain not possible because all the wind was knocked from him in a rush, Robin fell onto his side, momentarily rendered helpless. Wilson scrambled to his feet as though he were going to look for the gun, but Black Wasp hit him from behind, having drawn her knife, which she now drove into the back of his left shoulder.

Wilson screamed and went down, but did not give up. He threw Black Wasp, forcing her to abandon her knife which she'd buried to the hilt in her brother's shoulder.

Wilson rose shakily to his feet while Black Wasp struggled to recover from hitting the ground with bruising force. He pulled the knife from his shoulder with a groan and then flung it down. He narrowly missed Black Wasp's face. She glared at him and hissed in fury, snatching the knife up.

Wilson produced a knife of his own, and it looked like they would rather kill each other than Robin. But then they both turned towards him, as though they had unanimously decided to forget their quarrel until after Robin was dead.

Barely staying upright on his knees, holding his chest and gasping, Robin couldn't recover fast enough to defend himself. He knew that. Even the moment of confusion which had resulted from the plane's engines starting up hadn't been enough.

Robin looked up at his two assailants, neither seeing mercy in their eyes nor expecting any. These were creatures without empathy or compassion. They thought only of themselves.

And then, like a shadow blocking out the moon, Batman arrived. Leaping down from on top of the plane in a fabric-leather rustle of cape, the Dark Knight at last descended upon the scene, landing on both Wilson and Black Wasp at once, knocking them to the ground.

"Tell me," He growled in a haunting snarl, "Which of you hurt him first?"

In that one question, he revealed every bit of fear, every ounce of fury, and every measure of self-control it took not to wring both their necks. The anger in his eyes, the apoplectic fury in his voice, it made the rage of Black Wasp seem like a child's temper tantrum.

Even though the air was stiflingly hot, even though the rage was not directed at him, even though he was immeasurably relieved to see Batman, Robin still couldn't entirely suppress a shiver of cold fear.


	21. Chapter 21

They say that necessity is the mother of invention, and the uneasy alliance between bitter enemies is certainly an invention born of necessity. There was no time for discussion. In fact, they didn't so much as exchange glances. Fear, frustration and fury combined to generate a link between Black Wasp and her brother which bordered on the supernatural. When they moved, it was in smooth tandem, as though they were of a single body and mind, with but one purpose to its name.

Black Wasp twisted and drew a secondary knife from the belt at her waist, as Wilson thrashed suddenly and violently, drawing Batman's main focus to himself while his sister pulled the knife and then slammed it into the thigh of their shared adversary, burying it to the hilt.

Batman cried out, but did not immediately lose his grip on the siblings, so Black Wasp twisted the knife savagely, forcing Batman to turn. His instincts overrode his senses, and he moved to escape from that which was proving dangerous to him, lifting his weight from their backs.

Black Wasp leaped to her feet and snatched her favored knife from where she'd dropped it on the ground in the same motion, whirling towards Batman with the intention of finishing him off before he recovered from her initial assault.

In the meantime, Wilson lunged under the belly of the plane, heading away from the fight.

Robin had begun to move even before the series of events completed themselves, a blind rage of his own driving him to his feet, propelling him forward and rendering him temporarily insensitive to his own injuries. He knew before Black Wasp picked the knife off the ground that she intended to follow through on her attack. She was not seeking escape.

This was chaos. Violence. It was what she'd come for, and she was loving every instant of it.

Robin hit her high from behind, but then altered his own trajectory. Crossing his legs around Black Wasp's neck, he flipped backward, yanking her away from Batman. As his hands touched down on gravel, Robin pulled Black Wasp upward and then released her, throwing her over himself. She hit the ground on her hands and knees, the knife clattered just beyond her reach.

Robin landed upright just to Black Wasp's right. As she reached for the knife, he kicked it aside. She gave up on the knife at once, grabbing his support leg at the ankle and pulling it out from under him. With a yelp, Robin fell and landed heavily on his back.

Black Wasp scrambled over him, plucked up the knife and drew back to try and drive it into him. Robin caught her knife hand by the wrist and writhed beneath her, trying to get at an angle to not merely defend himself but also strike back. Black Wasp put her full weight into pushing the knife towards her adversary's throat, pouring her whole heart and every scrap of rage into the action.

Batman had, by this point, pulled the knife from his leg and gotten his feet under him, albeit shakily. Seeing that Robin was in trouble, he began to move to assist, but a bullet struck down directly in his path, its landing coming so swiftly after it was fired that the roar issuing from the gun seemed a result of the bullet's impact instead of its ejection.

Batman ducked towards the shadows, trying to pinpoint where the shot originated from. Not far. Wilson had found his gun in the bushes and was taking shots at Batman. He was a ludicrously bad shot, but that didn't mean he wasn't still dangerous. Robin was on his own until Batman had dealt with Wilson.

"A wasp saved your life once," she hissed in a low voice, her face a twisted mask of emotion which seemed ill-fitting because it was not rage so much as passion, not hate so much as pleasure, "It's only fitting for a wasp to also kill you."

Her eyes, inches from Robin's, were the color of dark blue sapphires in the night, glittering with cold vengeful fury, but also something else. Total awareness. No light was in those eyes, no spark of goodness nor even confusion. She knew what she was doing, knew what it meant.

That expression of awareness, the simple fact that Black Wasp was willfully and knowingly choosing this path, sent shudders through Robin and he felt a fear he'd never felt before. It went deeper than his own survival or even that of the people he cared about.

It was a trembling fear for humanity itself. That insane people would cause hurt and torment to others was one thing, and that greedy people would do things for money or to protect their interests, that also was in the realms of comprehension. Sure, he hated the man who'd killed his parents, but at least what that man did made sense on some level.

But Robin was no threat to Black Wasp or Rebecca May, or anyone she cared about. Even now he saw that the insane fury within her was under her control. She was choosing to be this angry, this vengeful. No one was forcing it on her. She had tasted the fury within her, and liked it. She had acquired a lust for blood, as surely as a vampire in one of those 30s black-and-white movies did.

"You were Daddy's favorite," she snarled, "Always Daddy's favorite."

Robin hadn't the foggiest idea what she was on about. He didn't know Bernard was dead, and he certainly didn't know that Bernard had left his money to him. He had not noticed that Bernard had respect for him and no other, and wouldn't have cared if he had. Bernard's opinion of him had no value.

"Daddy loved you best!" her voice was getting louder, higher pitched, "He loved you best! And you weren't even his!"

Baffled by the words, disconcerted by the boundless rage being inexplicably directed at him, Robin knew he was losing this battle. But he'd thought that before and, so far, wild cards kept coming up and saving him in the nick of time. He just had to keep going until it was over, let the rest worry about itself.

"You weren't his!" she was shrieking now, the knife was trembling but still coming closer, "You weren't his! You bastard! Bastard child of a monster!"

At her words, Robin felt a shiver of rage of his own. His eyes narrowed and he dug deep for whatever reserves of strength he might have left. He sought strength in his own fury.

He was tired of people kidnapping him, trying to kill him because of Batman. He was sick to death of it. He hated being always secondary, always in the dark shadow of Batman, always treated like he was a second-rate hero, or like he was just there to hold Batman's cape for him while Batman did the real work. He _hated_ being thought of as a child, as a sidekick, as less than.

"Do not mistake me for him," Robin snarled, his own fury rising to match Black Wasp's, "You have a problem with him, you take it up with Batman. Leave me out of it!"

He heaved upward, shoving her up and to the side. He rolled on top of her, keeping one hand on her wrist, holding the knife at bay. But he released her with his other hand, freeing up his elbow to strike that sensitive point just below the ribcage.

With a pained gasp, Black Wasp dropped the knife. Without even thinking, Robin snatched it up and laid the blade across her throat. He leaned in close, so their noses almost touched, and gazed into her eyes. She did not yield. Her eyes flashed and she spat in his face, so he leaned more heavily on the knife, until she made a soft mewling sound of pain.

"You wanted chaos, violence, monsters," Robin whispered, staring her in the face, "Well this is what a monster looks like. I guess now you can die happy."

Convulsive shudders rippled through him as he tried to force himself to let go of the knife. Robin wasn't a killer, he never had been. But, just for a moment, he wanted to kill this woman. She who had dared shoot Batman, leaving him to be unmasked by the public. She who had tracked Robin all the way here with the intention of killing him. She whose madness was not medical or trauma-based, but wholly voluntary. She who wanted to be a monster, a demon from Hell.

And then he saw it. In the depths of those blue eyes, he saw that she was, at last, afraid. She felt the pain of the blade against her throat, saw her own mad rage reflected in Robin's eyes, and she was afraid. She did not want to die. The fear in her eyes broke through the hatred which had momentarily gripped Robin's heart, turning his emotions to ice.

He sat back, threw the knife aside. It made a snap sound as it buried itself to the hilt in the gravel.

Panting more from the effort of throwing the knife than the preceding fight, Robin sat back, then got up, yanking Black Wasp to her feet by grabbing the collar of her jacket.

Looking over at where Batman and Wilson were, Robin saw that Batman had caught his villain too. When Batman looked his way, Robin smiled weakly. He felt like he was about to pass out.

"I saw you," Rebecca whispered in his ear and he looked at her sharply.

Her eyes showed something they hadn't before. Respect. And possibly awe. Robin felt a cold chill chasing up and down his spine, but tried to ignore it.

"I saw the animal inside," she went on, "The animal Daddy always said was there. You wanted to kill me."

"No," Robin managed to choke out.

"Kill me dead."

"No."

"Dead. Dead, dead, dead, _dead_," she was taunting him now.

"No," Robin repeated, but fell silent as Batman came within earshot with Wilson in tow.

"Dead like Daddy," she hissed in his ear, so quietly he could just barely hear it.

Instead of answering, Robin gave her a shove towards Batman, who passed Wilson to him. Batman had tied Wilson's hands behind his back, and now did the same to Rebecca.

"Little bird," she said, looking at Robin while Batman tied her hands and checked her for more weapons, "Little birdy's got the heart of a panther. Wanted to kill me. Loved it. Every minute of it. Little birdy wants me dead-" here she was forced to break off because Batman stuffed a gag in her mouth, which provoked a muffled squeal of protest.

"She's a mouthy one," Robin commented lightly, but Batman saw the relief in his eyes.

"Keep an eye on them," Batman instructed, moving to check on Melina.

"Sit down," Robin told them, "Right there."

Rebecca obeyed, but Wilson resisted. Robin clipped him in the back of the knee with a boot, forcing him down into a sitting position. He then laid a hand on the man's shoulder.

"And stay there."

He resisted the urge to look over at Batman, kept his concern for the girl at bay. It had been easy to do during the fight, when the instinct to survive had consumed every thought. But now he felt a pang of worry, and guilt. She should never have been hurt.

Somehow, all of this seemed like it was his fault. He should have known Melina had feelings for him, should have put a stop to that before it got out of hand. He shouldn't have spent so much time with her, should have realized that she suffered from hero worship.

He should have outrun Black Wasp that night in the alley, should have brought her down no matter what he heard behind him. He should never have let Wilson get the upper hand in the courtroom, should never... it suddenly hit him that William Bernard was somehow dead. That's what Rebecca had said. And suddenly it all made sense. He understood why both Rebecca and Wilson had come after him.

"It was Bernard's game all along," he said aloud, floored by the realization and grappling with disbelief, "He planned it. I don't believe it. He meant for this to happen. But... why?"

"Control," Wilson said in a bleak voice, gazing emptily at the ground before him, "Power. Influence beyond the grave. He valued that above everything. It was his version of immortality."

"This island was never for him," Robin said, "He bought it with intention of bringing you and Rebecca here, having you fight. He wanted you to kill each other. You were never the children he envisioned for himself, and you both stood as constant reminders that he didn't have full control of the world. But, more than that, he wanted you to kill me."

Wilson looked up sharply, and a light seemed to go on in his eyes as he stared up at Robin.

"He left everything to you because he wanted me to kill you," Wilson said, and a bark of humorless laughter escaped him, "And then he wanted me to kill Rebecca."

"He built you," Robin said, "He knew what you would do. He knew that you were his hope for immortality. Because you wouldn't be satisfied with his empire. No, not after what he did to you. You would want everything. Control. Power. Influence. The things he valued most."

Wilson was shaking his head. He seemed smaller, diminished somehow. Robin knew he'd killed several people in pursuit of his goal, was a dangerous individual who could never be trusted in society. He was a murderer, a master manipulator of the legal system. But, in that moment, he was just a pitiful creature, a soul tortured by the sins of his father.

But, like Melina, Rebecca and Bernard before them, Wilson was fully responsible for his actions. It had been Bernard's game, but Wilson had chosen to play. He had chosen to kill.

"I played right into his hands, all the while telling myself I was getting revenge, that I was taking what he owed me. And I was doing just what he wanted," Wilson shook his head, and his shoulders shook as he tried to fight back bitter tears of defeat.

"You became a killer of your own free will," Robin reminded him in a harsh tone devoid of sympathy, "Nobody forced you into that. And I don't believe you feel remorse, not even now."

Wilson didn't answer, instead just looking fixedly at the ground.

"She's alive," Batman announced.

Robin turned his head just enough to see Batman in his peripheral vision. Batman had picked Melina up in his arms, but seemed to be expecting Robin to do something.

The Batwing couldn't carry them all. But there was the plane, and its pilot.

"Take her," Robin said, "I'll bring these two in."

"You're exhausted. Are you sure you can handle them?" Batman asked.

Robin glanced at him, saw the question was an honest one, and a fair one. Batman had been stabbed in the leg, but he was still better off than Robin, physically speaking.

"I can't pilot the Batwing," Robin admitted reluctantly, "I've got double vision as it is. If I tried to fly, I'd pilot myself right into the side of a mountain."

Batman nodded, but there was still concern in his face. Robin sighed.

"I can handle it. Not only are these two restrained, neither one of them can fly a plane. They'd have to be suicidally insane to try and take over the plane."

"And you're sure they're not?" Batman asked, and again it was an honest question.

"It's over now," Robin said, "They won't give us any more trouble."

Batman nodded and started to turn towards the Batwing.

"Oh, and Batman," he turned back to Robin, "Thanks for coming after me."

"What are friends for?"


	22. Chapter 22

"Nothing's changed. But you know that, don't you."

Physically, Robin was exhausted. Emotionally, he was drained. He was in no mood for discussion, had hoped Wilson would note Rebecca's gag and choose to maintain his silence. Robin was armed now, with equipment stored in the Batwing.

He'd always thought Batman's preoccupation with having backups of things stored anywhere there was space for them was a little overkill, but he appreciated having a fully stocked utility belt. He'd never make wisecracks about there being such as thing as being too prepared again.

"Knowing doesn't change anything. Not what we've done, not what we are. Understanding it doesn't make it better. It just makes things all that clearer," Wilson went on, as though Robin was participating.

In truth, Robin didn't really care. He couldn't muster up enough energy in any part of himself. Not physically, emotionally or mentally. His side stung where Black Wasp had knifed him, it still hurt to breathe because Wilson had hit him in the chest, his right leg throbbed painfully. His head hurt. Everything hurt for that matter. He wasn't at all interested in reflection or revelation. He just wanted to rest. Nothing else really mattered to him right now.

"You were right. I don't feel remorse. None at all. It's not like I enjoyed killing those people. I didn't really. But they were in my way," Wilson said.

He was trying to justify his actions. But to who? Himself or Robin? And why did it matter to him? If he really felt nothing, felt he was justified in his actions, why did he need to defend them to anyone?

"I'd do it again," Wilson continued, undaunted by Robin's lack of response, "Only I'd start with you this time. I didn't realize. I did things in the wrong order, that's why I failed."

Not only was he justifying his actions, he was actually planning to do it again. He didn't realize it yet, because he was thinking about past actions rather than future ones. But what about the next time someone got in his way? He'd mow them down just the same as the ones who came before.

He was a killer, beyond redemption because he didn't want it or even believe he needed it. At his core, Wilson seemed to believe in the rightness of his actions. Using the same logic his father had once laid out, Wilson was putting his survival and success above everyone and everything around him.

And yet, he was still having to sound it out, to speak aloud his conviction. Not as a witness, but as someone seeking acceptance. More than that, seeking approval. The approval his father had never given him, perhaps. He needed someone to share his feelings, or at the very least condone them.

With a jolt, Robin realized that Wilson was not that different from Melina. He was seeking approval, because he got his sense of self worth from outside sources. Even twisted and miserable as this wretched man was, he wanted more than anything to be loved, cliche as that sounded.

Robin glanced at him. In Wilson's eyes was a knowing look. Wilson knew he was unlovable, and that love would not make him any less spiteful, any less greedy, any less despicable. No love any person could give him, not his father or his sister nor anyone else, could change what he had made of himself.

There was a big difference between Wilson and Melina, though they had virtually the same motivations. When confronted with the consequences of her actions, Melina had been horrified. Crazy and wrong as she'd been to drag Robin off to a deserted island, he did not believe she would have hurt him. And he was almost certain she would have let him go. Eventually.

On the other hand, Wilson had wrought death with his own hand. He felt scraps of guilt, but they were buried beneath the surface and he would likely ignore them for the rest of his life, convinced that he believed his actions were right, that there was nothing condemnable or wrong about how he had chosen to secure his future. In his eyes, his only failing was the order in which he had killed.

"I never hired anyone. I didn't want anyone in the loop. There were a lot of bodies to bury. That part was kinda fun. Trying to out think the cops, the legal system. I'm good at that. That's why I became a lawyer. I'm just like my dad, aren't I? I tried so... so hard not to be like him. But it only worked on the surface. I look different, sound different. But I want to have control. To be master of everything and everyone around me. Just like my dad."

"Oh shut up," Robin snapped finally.

He didn't really care about Wilson's revelations. They only confirmed what Robin already knew. Wilson, like Rebecca, was fully aware of his actions. Rather than letting fury be the guiding force in his life, Wilson was ruled by desire. But it didn't matter, because the end result for both was the same.

The only difference was that Wilson, having killed so many in cold blood, was likely to get a life sentence or possibly be executed. Rebecca, never having actually killed anyone, probably wouldn't get much of a sentence, especially seeing as she had attacked in secret. There would be no witnesses, because the only people she had assaulted were vigilantes.

And people wearing masks had no business being in a courtroom.

Robin shivered as he recalled what Rebecca had said. The worst part was that she was right. He had wanted to kill her, and not just because of what she represented to him, but because she was more than likely going to go free. And, sooner or later, she was going to kill someone.

Maybe not the day after release, or the week or month after. But someday.

The proof was in her actions, in her words, in her eyes. She _wanted_ to kill. She needed only the opportunity and slightest provocation. And she was going to go free.

Robin closed his eyes, suddenly nauseated. He took a deep, if shuddering, breath.

He was no killer. He hadn't the stomach, or the heart, for it. No matter how justified it seemed, he knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself. If he'd killed Rebecca on the island, a part of him would have died with her. The part of him which kept him on the straight and narrow, committed to doing good. He saw much of himself in Black Wasp. That need for chaos, for the constant battle between life and death.

The truth was, if Robin killed someone, sooner or later he'd find himself at odds with Batman. Not just petty arguments like they had now, but serious. He'd find himself on the list of the Dark Knight's enemies. He knew the beast that lurked in his own heart. If he let it out, he'd never be the same again.

He wondered if anyone could be.

"You're a fool if you think they'll keep her locked up," Wilson said, nodding towards Rebecca, who sat in sullen silence, which was forced on her by the gag in her mouth.

"I thought I told you to shut up," Robin grumbled.

"It'll just be your word against hers. And you already learned what happens if you take the witness stand. Even if you did get a conviction, she'd only get a few years. Do you think time in jail would help? Or how about therapy? Drugs? You know it wouldn't. She's happy with what she is."

"Shut up," Robin repeated, "I won't tell you again."

"I saw how she looked at you. She'll get out, track you down, and kill you. Or make you kill her. She might even like that better. Daddy's little girl, following in his footsteps, leaving a trail of monsters in her wake. I saw the look in your eyes when she talked to you. You wanted to kill her. Still do."

In one fluid motion, Robin launched himself across the plane and secured his hand around Wilson's throat. For an instant, he squeezed, cut off Wilson's air supply entirely. Then he forced himself to let go. Wilson smirked at him. In response, Robin punched him once, soundly, knocking him unconscious.

"I told you to shut up," Robin hissed, then spared Rebecca a glare, warning her to behave.

Though Wilson might have believed Robin would actually choke him to death in a fit of rage, such was not the case. Robin had secured a hold on his throat so that he would have the best position if Wilson had somehow broken free. The pressure he'd put on Wilson's throat was a warning. As he'd been doing that, he'd checked the ropes binding Wilson's wrists, making sure they were secure.

And then he'd knocked Wilson out. It was not an act of anger. It was because Robin knew that his position, if either or both of the captives got free, was the weaker one.

He'd assured Batman they wouldn't try anything, but he didn't fully believe that. He was just one person, they were two. And both of them were hellbent on killing him.

"He's wrong, you know," Robin said to Rebecca, settling calmly back. into his seat.

He rested his elbows on the armrests and interlaced his fingers. Rebecca stared at him.

"Melina knows. She was there. She saw. And she was also shot, admittedly with Corin Wilson's gun. And Jeremy Bolden knows too. He saw everything through the windows."

Bolden had taken a risk, revealing his presence in starting up the plane's engines. It was all he could think of. He'd hoped it would provide enough distraction for Robin to get the upper hand. He'd done it, even knowing that everything rode on Robin succeeding with the odds against him. If Wilson and Rebecca got the upper hand, they would be quick to dispatch Bolden.

"Two witnesses. Admittedly unreliable ones. But more endearing than you. Black Wasp, daughter of William Bernard, the man who committed suicide. I don't know about where you come from, but in Gotham suicide is generally seen as a weakness of character. Besides, now you've let your demons out, you can't hide them anymore. You're not that good of an actor, Rebecca. You go scowling and snarling into that courtroom and the jury will eat you alive."

There it was again. Fear. She felt fear. She was only human, in spite of what she seemed to be.

"And once it gets out about how Bernie treated his kids, his reputation will be irreparably damaged. You can't hope to garner sympathy through the supposed goodness of your father."

He didn't add that she could probably win everyone over by playing the tortured soul. She'd just had a bad childhood and didn't deserve to be punished for her actions. All that garbage.

In Robin's view, punishment was irrelevant. The question was whether or not she was dangerous to society. And Rebecca May was most definitely a danger to society. It didn't matter how she'd been treated as a child, or what mental defect might be uncovered with extensive therapy sessions and testing. The only relevant thing was whether or not she was going to kill someone. The answer to that question was a a resounding 'yes'. Not that the media was likely to focus on that aspect.

Sympathy for the devil was common these days.

Well, Robin didn't have any sympathy. And he had an ulterior motive in knocking Wilson unconscious. As a lawyer, Wilson might well refute what Robin was saying, pointing out the holes in the story. What Robin was doing was frightening Rebecca. He wanted her to tell the truth herself.

He wanted her to convict herself, because that was the only real hope of keeping her in prison or an asylum where she would be unable to harm anyone (Robin didn't much care whether the court decided she was sane or not, just so long as she was locked away).

"And when you get out," Robin said, lowering his voice to a dangerous growl, "I'll be waiting."

He stared hard at her, willing her to remember the look in his eyes in the moment when he'd wanted her dead, hoping she would project that image in her mind's eye, instead of seeing what was really there. That the desire to kill had gone fast, and been replaced by deep shame at even having contemplated it.

"I want you to tell the truth, Rebecca. Tell them everything you did. Everything you meant to do. Everything you _want_ to do. Do it, Rebecca," Robin let her imagine the _"or else."_

Her eyes began to brim with tears, but Robin would not relent.

"The truth, Rebecca. The whole truth. And nothing but the truth. Do you understand me?"

Slowly, Rebecca nodded.


	23. Chapter 23

Melina woke up in her hospital bed in the middle of the night, five days after Batman had brought her in. The lights were low, the room was spare, done in pale yellow. There was an open window. Melina knew at once the window wasn't open for no reason. Searching the shadows with her eyes, she spotted Robin in the corner. He hadn't once visited her when she was in critical condition.

"You don't have to lurk," Melina whispered, barely able to speak above one these days.

Reluctantly, as though afraid that the light might sting, Robin moved from the dark corner to the side of the bed, staying carefully beyond arm's reach. Melina sighed wearily.

"You don't need to worry," Melina told him, "Batman was here when I first regained consciousness. He explained things to me."

When that elicited no response, she decided to elaborate. She took as deep a breath as she dared. The bullet had penetrated her left side, and deep breathing still hurt.

"He told me... that you don't feel that way about me. And he also told me... what I already knew... but didn't want to believe. That the only thing trapping you would do was make you hate me," she stopped, bit her lower lip, afraid to ask.

Robin stood still, said nothing, did nothing. She realized what he was doing. He was making her say it out loud. Making her face it, say it so that there could be no doubt about whether or not she understood. He was not about to give her an opening, wouldn't let her sink back into the fantasy she'd allowed to consume her over the months. She supposed she'd known it was a fantasy all along, and wasn't sure when she'd decided it could be made into reality.

Just like Bernard had done. He'd let his fantasies run riot in reality, become a pedophile, rapist, and a killer. And she'd just about done the same thing, only on a smaller scale. But that didn't make it better.

"What I did was selfish, and wrong. I get it now. I really do. And I'm sorry. I am _so_-" her voice cracked and she was afraid she wouldn't be able to go on, but she managed to somehow, "-So sorry. What I did, it was worse than just the act itself. It was that _I_ did it. I was supposed to be your friend. You trusted me, cared for me. And I betrayed that trust, destroyed it in a single, selfish move. And I really am sorry. I'll understand... if you do hate me. But I have to ask, I have to know. Don't lie to me. I know you would, because you care about me, even now. You care about everyone, even the worst of us."

It struck her as funny, the way she'd said that. As though Robin was something other than a man, something more than human. And, she supposed, he was. That was why the cape, why the mask. It was because he was something other when he wore them. He wasn't just some boy you could fall for. He could not be corrupted or fall prey to threats and blackmail. He wasn't like her, nor like anyone she knew. He hid his face for his own protection, and doubtless the protection of those he cared for. But he wore the mask for another reason. It was the symbol of what he was. Something different, separate, apart from everyone else. Alone and yet not alone, different and yet similar.

But she knew now that he could not love her in a romantic way. Perhaps the boy behind the mask might have been able to, but that was not the person she believed she'd fallen in love with. She didn't even know him. In truth, what she'd felt wasn't love. It was idolatry tinged with lust. That's all.

And now, even if he had been just like her, she wouldn't want him to love her. She could not be loved by him. Not after what she'd done, not just in reality, but in her head. She had tarnished their friendship, and she was deeply ashamed.

"I have to know," she said, finding her voice again, "Do you hate me?"

He let out a sharp breath, and looked not only relieved, but like he might actually laugh. He closed his eyes and shook his head, clearly trying to be serious because she was.

"Melina," he said finally, in that gentle way of his, "Don't you remember what I said to you when we met? When I was still locked in the cellar? Don't you remember what I told you?"

"You told me a lot of things," Melina said, but she knew what he was referring to.

He didn't let her feign ignorance. He said nothing, but made it clear he was waiting for her to say it, tell him what she'd heard back then. She was reluctant, because she feared that the words wouldn't really be true, that he might have been lying to her, even if unintentionally.

"You said that nothing I did could make someone love me any more or less."

Robin nodded patiently, "And what else did I tell you?"

"You told me that... that you cared. About me."

"That's right. I did," Robin said, his voice kind, his expression seemed almost sad, "If you understand what I was saying, and believe me, how can you even ask?"

"Because... well... I... I did something so terrible, more terrible than you could have imagined I'd do then. Even worse than releasing Supay to try and kill Bernard. I had every reason to want him dead. But... taking you from your home... that was the same as killing you. In the jungle, alone, you would cease to be what you are, what I fell in love with. I was murdering my friend."

"Melina," Robin's voice was hard suddenly, "Look at me."

She realized she'd closed her eyes against the tears. It was hard, so hard, to open her eyes and look at him. Her shame made her want to never look him in the eye again. She had no right to look at him. Not now, not after what she'd tried to do.

"There is nothing –_nothing_\- that you could ever do, that would make me care about you or love you any less," she opened her mouth to protest, but he interrupted almost fiercely, "Nothing, Melina. Absolutely nothing."

"But, what if I killed someone? What if I was like Black Wasp?" she spoke quickly, before he could stop her again, feeling the overwhelming need to know, to know for sure, "What if I killed someone? What if I felt no remorse? What if I _enjoyed_ it?"

"That would hurt me," Robin said in a voice soft with emotion.

"There. See?" Melina bit back a painful sob.

"You could not hurt me if I didn't care for you," Robin replied in a quiet voice, "Only someone I cared for could hurt me with their actions. It would hurt because I cared. And I'd let it hurt. Let it hurt until I felt like I was going to die. You know why?"

Melina shook her head, tears running freely now.

"Because that's how much I care for you. And you cannot make me stop caring. Not now, not ever."

Melina had known he was going to say that, but even now struggled to believe it. She was weeping without shame now, overwhelmed by the power of what she now knew.

Unlike before, she did not try to misinterpret Robin's words. She knew when he spoke of love, he meant it in a strictly platonic sense. When he spoke of how much he cared, it was as friends and nothing more. They could never be more. Even if she hadn't done what she did, they could never have been more. He had never felt that way for her, and never could.

And, she now realized, she didn't really feel that way about him. If she'd loved him, she would have put his wants and needs before her own. But she hadn't. She had hated Gotham and, even though she knew Robin loved it, she had ripped him from his home because that was what she'd wanted.

That was not love. Love was putting the other person before yourself. And, if you were lucky and they loved you back, they'd put you before themselves too. She understood that now.

"Melina," Robin spoke gently once more, "Please believe me. I have never lied to you. And I'm not lying now. You can't make me stop caring about you, or what happens to you. But you must know, I am bound by what I am. If you were a threat to my city, or any other, I would have to stop you, no matter how much it hurt. And it would hurt. Probably worse than I can even imagine."

"I understand," Melina managed to say, knowing that Robin wouldn't let it go until she said it, "And I believe you. And I want you to know," she blinked to clear away the tears so she could look him in the eye as she said it, "I will never do that to you."

Robin nodded slightly, looking relieved. But Melina went on.

"I think I should leave. Supay is fine on his own, anyone can take care of him now, he doesn't need me. But I think I need to find my own way. I need to figure out who I am. I've spent my life doing what other people wanted, taking care of other people, being controlled, letting myself be controlled. You set me free, and the first thing I did was put myself back in a cage."

"You think we shouldn't see each other anymore," Robin said, "You think hiding will help?"

"Not hiding. I'm not going to hide. But I can't stay at the sanctuary forever. And I can't be in Gotham, not knowing you're here. I'd be looking for you on every sidewalk, in every park, trying to guess which one of those dark haired boys might be you. I'd just become obsessed. So I need to go somewhere else. To become stronger. And who knows? Maybe I'll come back someday."

"I understand," Robin said, "I'll be looking out for you to come back."

"To make sure I stay out of trouble?" Melina asked.

"To make sure my friend is okay."

"Well, I guess I'll have to come back to Gotham someday," she smiled shyly.

"Why?"

"So you won't worry about me. I don't want my friends to worry about me."

"I only worry because I care."

"I know you do, Robin. I know you do."


	24. Chapter 24

"You're awfully quiet this evening," Bruce commented mildly.

"Hmm?" Dick mumbled, looking up from the game board laid out on the coffee table.

Bruce was in the armchair opposite from him. It was an unusually quiet night, and so they had come in early. The board game was a new one, and relatively complicated. The both of them preferred complex games. They picked up game play rules quickly and bored easily. Usually it took them half the predicted time to play through a game. Sometimes less.

"It's your turn," Bruce said, indicating the board.

"Oh. Sorry," Dick arranged the cards in front of him, rolled the dice and moved his game piece.

"Thinking about Melina?" Bruce inquired.

It really wasn't a question. He knew Dick was worried about Melina. The boy had been quiet since he'd come back home, preoccupied and almost... well... almost lethargic. It wasn't like him at all. Bruce had hoped having a talk with Melina would raise his spirits, but Dick was determinedly morose for reasons Bruce couldn't fathom. He had felt sure Dick would be his old self once he was able to be Robin again, but that had proved to be untrue. Something was bothering the boy more than he cared to admit.

Bruce knew Dick's moods, but often had to remind himself that, though they worked together efficiently, and though he couldn't ask for a better partner, Batman and Robin were two distinct entities, entirely different from one another, and one must never be confused for the other.

Bruce knew how he would feel in Dick's place. He'd been there before, in fact. More than once. And it would likely happen again. In another place, in another way, but still essentially the same. That weight, that pain, was the price they paid for what they did.

"She doesn't need to be alone," Dick said finally, and Bruce sat back in his seat, momentarily forgetting the game, "You know how they say there are different love languages? That some people need you to say it, some need you to show it?"

"Of course," Bruce said.

"Well I think Melina needs to hear it. To hear it a lot," Dick said.

Though love was usually a word reserved for romance and sometimes even sex, Bruce knew that was not the subject at hand. There were other kinds of love. Friends loved one another, and so did family. Often the word 'care' was substituted for 'love' so that it wouldn't be misinterpreted. But it 'care' wasn't enough to convey the depth of a relationship, of whatever variety. It was like saying love was a feeling. It could cause feelings, but that wasn't what it was.

"It's not like she's stupid or doesn't believe it," Dick went on, oblivious of Bruce's mind having wandered from the conversation, "It's just... well... she's human. People need to be reminded of things that are true, things that matter. It's easy to forget, or get caught up in daily life. You know?"

Saying love was a feeling was like saying mass was gravity. It showed a complete misunderstanding of what you were seeing. Bruce didn't tend to think of it in words. You chose to love someone, and then you lived with it. Maybe you had a reason that could be put into a long letter, or maybe no real reason at all. At the end of the day, love just was. Best to leave it at that.  
But Dick's question had brought another thought to mind.

Bruce had dated enough women to know that they all wanted to be told they were pretty, and they would like hearing it however it was said. But to _really_ tell them they were pretty, you had to figure out their language. Some wanted you to say it in words, or write it in letters (he wasn't good at that). Some wanted you to buy them jewelry or clothing, not necessarily expensive, but nice. Some wanted you to take them out, like you were showing off a priceless artifact. Not so they could be objectified. But because saying they were pretty was a way of showing you cared for them, before you were ready to admit that you loved them.

But the same was true of platonic relationships. Some people showed they cared by saying so, some showed it by doing things, others would just want to spend time with you.

"Hello?" Dick snapped his fingers in front of Bruce.

"Hmm?"

"Now who's not paying attention," Dick said, but he seemed in good humor, "It's your turn, by the way. Still. Also, I'm going to win this one in just a few more turns."

Bruce looked at the board. Dick was probably right. He was a lot more into games than Bruce was. Bruce usually only agreed to play because he knew Dick wanted to. His way of showing that he cared was by doing. He knew that. And Dick knew it too.

He showed he cared by flying halfway across the world to find Robin. By opting to play these board games rather than read the evening paper.

It was important to know how people communicated their hearts not only so you could speak to them, but also so that you could recognize the signs that they cared for you.

One of the most common problems was that men tended to do, women tended to say. So many women would come to think that their husbands didn't love them because they never said it. And men would think their wives were insincere because they said it so often.

"I think Melina will be alright," Bruce said after taking his turn, "Before, I thought she was possibly the most dangerous of the three. But when I talked to her, I changed my mind. I don't think she would have hurt you, even if May and Wilson hadn't interfered."

"Not to mention you," Dick said, not looking up from the board, deciding what his next move would be.

"The point is, I believe she would have let you go. She's a lot stronger than you may think. And I think, with experience, she'll be able to make the right decisions on her own."

"But until then?" Dick asked.

"If she needs you, she knows where to look for you," Bruce reminded him, "Until she does, all you can do is hope for the best, pray she'll be alright."

"I guess so. But I just-"

"She can't use you as a crutch forever," Bruce interrupted, "She's ready to stand on her own."

Dick looked up from the board. He smiled crookedly. He still looked worried, but his eyes were grateful. Bruce wasn't sure what he'd said to elicit that response. It puzzled him.

As for Dick, his own words had reminded him of something. Something he'd forgotten. He understood Melina and appreciated her company because she was like him. She said things in words. So did he. But somewhere along the line, he'd forgotten that wasn't how Batman or Bruce communicated.

He knew he had Batman's respect because he was often allowed to act on his own, beyond sight. They often split up to work. Batman trusted Robin with his end of things. Batman didn't have to say it in words. He said it every night with his actions.

He knew Bruce was his friend, that it wasn't all in his head, because Bruce did things like play board games with him. Bruce thought he didn't know that Bruce didn't much like games, but he did. For Dick and virtually no one else, Bruce would consent to play.

And too, he remembered not only the anger with which Batman had addressed Wilson and Rebecca, but also the fear which tinged the edges of his voice. That was a tone he reserved for his family, for people who had endangered them. Robin had heard that tone of voice before.

"I still can't believe you got Rebecca May to plead guilty," Bruce said, "How did you do it?"

With the help of Batman, Gotham PD had gotten together enough evidence to take Wilson to trial, and they were confident of getting a conviction. Rebecca May had pled guilty to assault and attempted murder. When her home was searched, police discovered illegal drugs and weapons, as well as the set up to make the paralytic she'd shot Batman with. Rebecca admitted all of those things were hers.

"In essence," Dick replied with a sigh, rolling the dice, "I told her I'd kill her if she didn't."

Bruce didn't ask if he'd been bluffing. Dick was sure Bruce could see in his face, even now, that he'd wanted to, if only for a moment. He felt he looked as guilty as if he'd really done it. He'd thought of it, wanted to, and that seemed every bit as bad as having gone through with it.

He wasn't even sure what had come over him. If Black Wasp had held him captive for weeks, tortured him, played mind games with him, he could not have hated her more than he had in that moment of profound character weakness. He didn't understand what had happened to him in that instant, and it scared him. It scared him a lot.

What had stopped him wasn't what he would have expected. Not the realization that it was wrong, that he would never be able to live with himself. Not even the fear in her eyes, which is what he'd told himself had stopped him. No, it was something else. Something he didn't want to admit to, but now felt that he absolutely must, or he'd never be able to have peace again.

"I wanted to," he said suddenly, setting the dice down.

Bruce looked up from the board, and Dick could have sworn he saw surprise in the older man's eyes. Unbelievable. The detective, surprised by something which had happened right in front of him. Dick hesitated, unsure where to go from there. He'd expected Bruce to tell him that he'd known that already.

The realization that he hadn't known, might never have known if only Dick had kept quiet, shook him for a moment. Maybe Bruce would think less of him now. But it didn't matter. Bruce was his friend, his partner, his mentor, his second father. He deserved the truth.

"For just... just a second. I wanted her dead. It had nothing to do with what was going on or what she'd done or was going to do. It was just... I looked in her eyes. And... and I _hated_ her. Like I've never hated anyone. Not even... not even the man who killed my parents," Dick's voice shook, and he spoke haltingly, but Bruce did not interrupt, did not rush him.

Dick swallowed and took a shuddering breath. He was trembling, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, trying to stop but unable to manage it, unable to look Bruce in the eyes.

"You know I always hate it when people call me a sidekick, treat me like I'm not a threat to them. Like I'd be nothing if not for you. Like I'm your own personal damsel in distress. Like I'm not even a person. Just... just a way of getting your attention. You know I hate that."

"I also know you deserve more respect," Bruce said, but then waited for Dick to go on.

"I've been telling Melina for six months that she can't get her sense of self worth from other people. I told her what other people think doesn't matter. I believe that. When I think about it. And I was thinking about it. I thought of you, what you'd think. And I..." he shook his head miserably, "I just didn't care."

"So what stopped you?" Bruce asked when Dick was silent for half a minute or more.

"It's stupid."

"It kept you from killing her," Bruce countered, then waited.

"I looked at her. But... I didn't see her. I... I saw you," Dick looked away for half a second, then looked away sharply, as though he'd been slapped.

Bruce drew in a breath at seeing the pain Dick had been keeping to himself for days. He swallowed hard, and resisted the urge to say something. This was something Dick had to work through himself. And he needed to say it out loud. Because that's what he did. He talked.

"And suddenly... it was like I was killing you. I thought I'd hallucinated it. Blood everywhere, tired, maybe even suffering from heatstroke. I could have. But that's not what it was."

He hesitated, clearly weighing his words, trying to find the least insane way to put what he had to say.

"I know that you care about me. I've always known. And I got a quick reminder when you came for me that night, as though I'd ever need one. If I'd killed her... it would have been like shoving a knife in your back. And then twisting it. I wasn't afraid of what you'd think of me... or what might happen to me. I thought about it later, of course. But just then... all I could think was what I'd be doing to you."

"And that stopped you."

"Yeah. That stopped me. But I should have... should have stopped before then. I shouldn't have been there in my mind at all. Not then, not ever," Dick's voice quivered with fear and he looked at Bruce, holding his gaze at last, "What kind of monster does that make me?"

Bruce sighed wearily. Emotional turmoil was not something he dealt with very well. That much was evidenced by his decision to become Batman. The right decision for Gotham, maybe. But for him as a person... Batman had taken him to some dark corners. Taken him to places he'd rather not go.

"The difference," he said finally, "Between a good person and a bad person, is what they do. Feelings don't rule us, and neither do fantasies. If they do, it's because we choose to let them."

"We both know that's only part of the truth," Dick said, unwilling to be comforted, "We both know William Bernard's fantasies only took over slowly."

"Because he indulged in them. Tell me, how often have you thought of killing someone?"

"Hardly ever. Even in nightmares when I was fighting the dark shadow of my parents' killer, I wasn't really thinking of killing him. Fact is, he usually killed me."

"So you're not inclined towards homicidal fantasies."

"No sir," Dick was staring at the floor again, for a moment sounding like he was eight years old.

Bruce paused, glancing up. Alfred had come into the room, but was standing quietly. Bruce returned his attention to Dick.

"Then what makes you think you're a monster?"

"I thought of it once," Dick's gaze snapped to meet Bruce's, fire flashing in his eyes, "That's enough."

He dropped his gaze again.

"Yes," Bruce said, "I suppose it is. But, if you're a monster, then that makes two of us."

Dick froze, didn't even breath for a moment. And then he looked hesitantly at Bruce, as though he didn't even really believe what he'd just heard. He didn't.

"You wanted to kill someone once?"

"Yes. More than once, in fact. Sometimes at night I wonder if I did the right thing. And then I feel guilty, ashamed, to even think such a thing. I know full well I couldn't live with killing someone. But still... I have thought of it."

"Yeah right. Name one."

"I can do better. I can name two," Bruce replied evenly, "The man who killed my parents. And the man who killed yours."

Dick swallowed hard, nodding more to himself than Bruce. It meant everything to hear that. Just to know he was not alone. That didn't make it right, but it made him feel less inhuman. If even the great Batman could think of killing, then maybe there was hope for him yet.

"Yes, Alfred?" Bruce looked up at Alfred as though noticing him for the first time.

"There's a call for you, sir," Alfred said.

"I didn't hear a phone ring," Dick said.

"It was... on the other line."

Both Bruce and Dick looked out the window and saw the bat signal.

Bruce got up and crossed the room, then realized something was missing. He stopped and looked back at Dick quizzically.

"You coming?" he asked.

Dick leaped to his feet eagerly and came to Bruce's side.

"Wouldn't miss it," he replied in a low voice.

If he was a monster, then so be it. If criminals thought of him only as Batman's sidekick, so be it. He couldn't change what they thought, and their opinions didn't matter to him anyway.

For tonight, Batman was the night. And Robin was the shadow on its wing.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you all so much for reading, hope you enjoyed it. Goodnight everybody._


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